"  They  sat  idly  and  silently  gazing 
with  eyes  that  dreamed  and  did  not  see  " 


MARTIN   EDEN 


BY 

JACK  LONDON 

AUTHOR   OF   "  THE   CALL  OF   THE  WILD,"   ETC.,  ETC. 


WITH  FRONTISPIECE  BY  THE  KINNEJS 


fforfe 

PUBLISHED   FOR 

THE   REVIEW  OF  REVIEWS   COMPANY 

BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

LONDON:  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 

1913 

All  rights  reverted 


COPYBISHT,  1908, 
BY  JACK  LONDON. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  September,  1909.    Reprinted 
September,  October,  November,  1909;  January,  1910;  February, 
December,  ign    October,   1913, 


44  Let  me  live  out  my  years  in  heat  of  blood! 

Let  me  lie  drunken  with  the  dreamer's  wine  I 
Let  me  not  see  this  soul-house  built  of  mud 
Go  toppling  to  the  dust  a  vacant  shrine  I  " 


MARTIN  EDEN 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  one  opened  the  door  with  a  latch-key  and  went  in, 
followed  by  a  young  fellow  who  awkwardly  removed  his 
cap.  He  wore  rough  clothes  that  smacked  of  the  sea,  and 
he  was  manifestly  out  of  place  in  the  spacious  hall  in 
which  he  found  himself.  He  did  not  know  what  to  do 
with  his  cap,  and  was  stuffing  it  into  his  coat  pocket 
when  the  other  took  it  from  him.  The  act  was  done 
quietly  and  naturally,  and  the  awkward  young  fellow 
appreciated  it.  "  He  understands,"  was  his  thought. 
"  He'll  see  me  through  all  right." 

He  walked  at  the  other's  heels  with  a  swing  to  his 
shoulders,  and  his  legs  spread  unwittingly,  as  if  the  level 
floors  were  tilting  up  and  sinking  down  to  the  heave  and 
lunge  of  the  sea.  The  wide  rooms  seemed  too  narrow  for 
his  rolling  gait,  and  to  himself  he  was  in  terror  lest  his 
broad  shoulders  should  collide  with  the  doorways  or 
sweep  the  bric-a-brac  from  the  low  mantel.  He  recoiled 
from  side  to  side  between  the  various  objects  and  multi 
plied  the  hazards  that  in  reality  lodged  only  in  his  mind. 
Between  a  grand  piano  and  a  centre-table  piled  high  with 
books  was  space  for  a  half  a  dozen  to  walk  abreast,  yet  he 
essayed  it  with  trepidation.  His  heavy  arms  hung  loosely 
at  his  sides.  He  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  those 
arms  and  hands,  and  when,  to  his  excited  vision,  one  arm 
seemed  liable  to  brush  against  the  books  on  the  table,  he 
lurched  away  like  a  frightened  horse,  barely  missing  the 
piano  stool.  He  watched  the  easy  walk  of  the  other  in 
front  of  him,  and  for  the  first  time  realized  that  his  walk 

B  1 


2  MARTIN  EDEN 

was  different  from  that  of  other  men.  He  experienced  a 
momentary  pang  of  shame  that  he  should  walk  so  un- 
couthly.  The  sweat  burst  through  the  skin  of  his  fore 
head  in  tiny  beads,  and  he  paused  and  mopped  his  bronzed 
face  with  his  handkerchief. 

"Hold  on,  Arthur,  my  boy,"  he  said,  attempting  to 
mask  his  anxiety  with  facetious  utterance.  "  This  is  too 
much  all  at  once  for  yours  truly.  Give  me  a  chance  to 
get  my  nerve.  You  know  I  didn't  want  to  come,  an'  I 
guess  your  fam'ly  ain't  hankerin'  to  see  me  neither." 

"  That's  all  right,"  was  the  reassuring  answer.  "  You 
mustn't  be  frightened  at  us.  We're  just  homely  people  — 
Hello,  there's  a  letter  for  me." 

He  stepped  back  to  the  table,  tore  open  the  envelope, 
and  began  to  read,  giving  the  stranger  an  opportunity 
to  recover  himself.  And  the  stranger  understood  and 
appreciated.  His  was  the  gift  of  sympathy,  understand 
ing;  and  beneath  his  alarmed  exterior  that  sympathetic 
process  went  on.  He  mopped  his  forehead  dry  and 
glanced  about  him  with  a  controlled  face,  though  in  the 
eyes  there  was  an  expression  such  as  wild  animals  betray 
when  they  fear  the  trap.  He  was  surrounded  by  the 
unknown,  apprehensive  of  what  might  happen,  ignorant 
of  what  he  should  do,  aware  that  he  walked  and  bore 
himself  awkwardly,  fearful  that  every  attribute  and  power 
of  him  was  similarly  afflicted.  He  was  keenly  sensitive, 
hopelessly  self-conscious,  and  the  amused  glance  that  the 
other  stole  privily  at  him  over  the  top  of  the  letter  burned 
into  him  like  a  dagger-thrust.  He  saw  the  glance,  but  he 
gave  no  sign,  for  among  the  things  he  had  learned  was 
discipline.  Also,  that  dagger-thrust  went  to  his  pride. 
He  cursed  himself  for  having  come,  and  at  the  same  time 
resolved  that,  happen  what  would,  having  come,  he  would 
carry  it  through.  The  lines  of  his  face  hardened,  and 
into  his  eyes  came  a  righting  light.  He  looked  about 
more  unconcernedly,  sharply  observant,  every  detail  of  the 
pretty  interior  registering  itself  on  his  brain.  ^  His  eyes 
were  wide  apart;  nothing  in  their  field  of  vision  escaped; 
and  as  they  drank  in  the  beauty  before  them  the  fighting 


MARTIN  EDEN  3 

light  died  out  and  a  warm  glow  took  its  place.     He  was 
responsive  to  beauty,  and  here  was  cause  to  respond. 

An  oil  painting  caught  and  held  him.  A  heavy  surf 
thundered  and  burst  over  an  out  jutting  rock;  lowering 
storm-clouds  covered  the  sky;  and,  outside  the  line  of 
surf,  a  pilot-schooner,  close-hauled,  heeled  over  till  every 
detail  of  her  deck  was  visible,  was  surging  along  against 
a  stormy  sunset  sky.  There  was  beauty,  and  it  drew  him 
irresistibly.  He  forgot  his  awkward  walk  and  came 
closer  to  the  painting,  very  close.  The  beauty  faded  out 
of  the  canvas.  His  face  expressed  his  bepuzzlement.  He 
stared  at  what  seemed  a  careless  daub  of  paint,  then 
stepped  away.  Immediately  all  the  beauty  flashed  back 
into  the  canvas.  "  A  trick  picture,"  was  his  thought,  as 
he  dismissed  it,  though  in  the  midst  of  the  multitudinous 
impressions  he  was  receiving  he  found  time  to  feel  a  prod 
of  indignation  that  so  much  beauty  should  be  sacrificed  to 
make  a  trick.  He  did  not  know  painting.  He  had  been 
brought  up  on  chromos  and  lithographs  that  were  always 
definite  and  sharp,  near  or  far.  He  had  seen  oil  paint 
ings,  it  was  true,  in  the  show  windows  of  shops,  but  the 
glass  of  the  windows  had  prevented  his  eager  eyes  from 
approaching  too  near. 

He  glanced  around  at  his  friend  reading  the  letter  and 
saw  the  books  on  the  table.  Into  his  eyes  leaped  a  wist- 
fulness  and  a  yearning  as  promptly  as  the  yearning  leaps 
into  the  eyes  of  a  starving  man  at  sight  of  food.  An 
impulsive  stride,  with  one  lurch  to  right  and  left  of  the 
shoulders,  brought  him  to  the  table,  where  he  began 
affectionately  handling  the  books.  He  glanced  at  the  titles 
and  the  authors'  names,  read  fragments  of  text,  caressing 
the  volumes  with  his  eyes  and  hands,  and,  once,  recognized 
a  book  he  had  read.  For  the  rest,  they  were  strange 
bocks  and  strange  authors.  He  chanced  upon  a  volume 
of  Swinburne  and  began  reading  steadily,  forgetful  of 
where  he  was,  his  face  glowing.  Twice  he  closed  the 
book  on  his  forefinger  to  look  at  the  name  of  the  author. 
Swinburne  !  he  would  remember  that  name.  That  fellow 
had  eyes,  and  he  had  certainly  seen  color  and  flash- 


4  MARTIN  EDEN 

ing  light.  But  who  was  Swinburne?  Was  he  dead  a 
hundred  years  or  so,  like  most  of  the  poets  ?  Or  was  he 
alive  still,  and  writing  ?  He  turned  to  the  title-page  .  .  . 
yes,  he  had  written  other  books  ;  well,  he  would  go  to  the 
free  library  the  first  thing  in  the  morning  and  try  to  get 
hold  of  some  of  Swinburne's  stuff.  He  went  back  to  the 
text  and  lost  himself.  He  did  not  notice  that  a  young 
woman  had  entered  the  room.  The  first  he  knew  was 
when  he  heard  Arthur's  voice  saying:  — 

"  Ruth,  this  is  Mr.  Eden." 

The  book  was  closed  on  his  forefinger,  and  before  he 
turned  he  was  thrilling  to  the  first  new  impression,  which 
was  not  of  the  girl,  but  of  her  brother's  words.  Under 
that  muscled  body  of  his  he  was  a  mass  of  quivering 
sensibilities.  At  the  slightest  impact  of  the  outside  world 
upon  his  consciousness,  his  thoughts,  sympathies,  and 
emotions  leapt  and  played  like  lambent  flame.  He  was 
extraordinarily  receptive  and  responsive,  while  his  imagi 
nation,  pitched  high,  was  ever  at  work  establishing  re 
lations  of  likeness  and  difference.  "  Mr.  Eden,"  was 
what  he  had  thrilled  to  —  he  who  had  been  called  "  Eden," 
or  "Martin  Eden,"  or  just  "Martin,"  all  his  life. 
And  "Mister! "  It  was  certainly  going  some,  was  his  in 
ternal  comment.  His  mind  seemed  to  turn,  on  the  instant, 
into  a  vast  camera  obscura,  and  he  saw  arrayed  around 
his  consciousness  endless  pictures  from  his  life,  of  stoke 
holes  and  forecastles,  camps  and  beaches,  jails  and  boozing- 
kens,  fever-hospitals  and  slum  streets,  wherein  the  thread 
of  association  was  the  fashion  in  which  he  had  been  ad 
dressed  in  those  various  situations. 

And  then  he  turned  and  saw  the  girl.  The  phantas 
magoria  of  his  brain  vanished  at  sight  of  her.  She  was 
a  pale,  ethereal  creature,  with  wide,  spiritual  blue  eyes  and 
a  wealth  of  golden  hair.  He  did  not  know  how  she  was 
dressed,  except  that  the  dress  was  as  wonderful  as  she. 
He  likened  her  to  a  pale  gold  flower  upon  a  slender  stem. 
No,  she  was  a  spirit,  a  divinity,  a  goddess;  such  subli 
mated  beauty  was  not  of  the  earth.  Or  perhaps  the 
books  were  right,  and  there  were  many  such  as  she  in  the 


MARTIN  EDEN  5 

upper  walks  of  life.  She  might  well  be  sung  by  that  chap 
Swinburne.  Perhaps  he  had  had  somebody  like  her  in 
rnind  when  he  painted  that  girl,  Iseult,  in  the  book  there 
on  the  table.  All  this  plethora  of  sight,  and  feeling,  and 
thought  occurred  on  the  instant.  There  was  no  pause  of 
the  realities  wherein  he  moved.  He  saw  her  hand  com 
ing  out  to  his,  and  she  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes  as 
she  shook  hands,  frankly,  like  a  man.  The  women  he 
had  known  did  not  shake  hands  that  way.  For  that 
matter,  most  of  them  did  not  shake  hands  at  all.  A  flood 
of  associations,  visions  of  various  ways  he  had  made  the 
acquaintance  of  women,  rushed  into  his  mind  and  threat 
ened  to  swamp  it.  But  he  shook  them  aside  and  looked 
at  her.  Never  had  he  seen  such  a  woman.  The  women 
he  had  known  !  Immediately,  beside  her,  on  either  hand, 
ranged  the  women  he  had  known.  For  an  eternal  second 
he  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  portrait  gallery,  wherein  she 
occupied  the  central  place,  while  about  her  were  limned 
many  women,  all  to  be  weighed  and  measured  by  a  fleet 
ing  glance,  herself  the  unit  of  weight  and  measure.  He 
saw  the  weak  and  sickly  faces  of  the  girls  of  the  fac 
tories,  and  the  simpering,  boisterous  girls  from  the  south 
of  Market.  There  were  women  of  the  cattle  camps, 
and  swarthy  cigarette-smoking  women  of  Old  Mexico. 
These,  in  turn,  were  crowded  out  by  Japanese  women, 
doll-like,  stepping  mincingly  on  wooden  clogs;  by  Eura 
sians,  delicate  featured,  stamped  with  degeneracy;  by 
full-bodied  South-Sea-Island  women,  flower-crowned  and 
brown-skinned.  All  these  were  blotted  out  by  a  gro 
tesque  and  terrible  nightmare  brood  —  frowsy,  shuffling 
creatures  from  the  pavements  of  Whitechapel,  gin-bloated 
hags  of  the  stews,  and  all  the  vast  hell's  following  of 
harpies,  vile-mouthed  and  filthy,  that  under  the  guise  of 
monstrous  female  form  prey  upon  sailors,  the  scrapings 
of  the  ports,  the  scum  and  slime  of  the  human  pit. 

"Won't  you  sit  down,  Mr.  Eden  ?"  the  girl  was  saying. 
"  I  have  been  looking  forward  to  meeting  you  ever  since 
Arthur  told  us.  It  was  brave  of  you  —  " 

He  waved  his  hand  deprecatingly  and  muttered  that  it 


6  MARTIN  EDEN 

was  nothing  at  all,  what  he  had  done,  and  that  any  fellow 
would  have  done  it.  She  noticed  that  the  hand  he  waved 
was  covered  with  fresh  abrasions,  in  the  process  of  healing, 
and  a  glance  at  the  other  loose-hanging  hand  showed  it  to 
be  in  the  same  condition.  Also,  with  quick,  critical  eye, 
she  noted  a  scar  on  his  cheek,  another  that  peeped  out 
from  under  the  hair  of  the  forehead,  and  a  third  that  ran 
down  and  disappeared  under  the  starched  collar.  She 
repressed  a  smile  at  sight  of  the  red  line  that  marked  the 
chafe  of  the  collar  against  the  bronzed  neck.  He  was 
evidently  unused  to  stiff  collars.  Likewise  her  feminine 
eye  took  in  the  clothes  he  wore,  the  cheap  and  umesthetic 
cut,  the  wrinkling  of  the  coat  across  the  shoulders,  and 
the  series  of  wrinkles  in  the  sleeves  that  advertised  bulg 
ing  biceps  muscles. 

While  he  waved  his  hand  and  muttered  that  he  had 
done  nothing  at  all,  he  was  obeying  her  behest  by  trying 
to  get  into  a  chair.  He  found  time  to  admire  the  ease 
with  which  she  sat  down,  then  lurched  toward  a  chair 
facing  her,  overwhelmed  with  consciousness  of  the  awk 
ward  figure  he  was  cutting.  This  was  a  new  experience 
for  him.  All  his  life,  up  to  then,  he  had  been  unaware 
of  being  either  graceful  or  awkward.  Such  thoughts  of 
self  had  never  entered  his  mind.  He  sat  down  gingerly 
on  the  edge  of  the  chair,  greatly  worried  by  his  hands. 
They  were  in  the  way'  wherever  he  put  them.  Arthur 
was  leaving  the  room,  and  Martin  Eden  followed  his  exit 
with  longing  eyes.  He  felt  lost,  alone  there  in  the  room 
with  that  pale  spirit  of  a  woman.  There  was  no  bar 
keeper  upon  whom  to  call  for  drinks,  no  small  boy  to 
send  around  the  corner  for  a  can  of  beer  and  by  means  of 
that  social  fluid  start  the  amenities  of  friendship  flowing. 

"  You  have  such  a  scar  on  your  neck,  Mr.  Eden,"  the 
girl  was  saying.  "  How  did  it  happen  ?  I  am  sure  it 
must  have  been  some  adventure." 

"  A  Mexican  with  a  knife,  miss,"  he  answered,  moisten 
ing  his  parched  lips  and  clearing  his  throat.  "It  was 
just  a  fight.  After  I  got  the  knife  away,  he  tried  to  bite 
off  my  nose." 


MARTIN  EDEN  7 

Baldly  as  he  had  stated  it,  in  his  eyes  was  a  rich  vision 
of  that  hot,  starry  night  at  Salina  Cruz,  the  white  strip 
of  beach,  the  lights  of  the  sugar  steamers  in  the  harbor, 
the  voices  of  the  drunken  sailors  in  the  distance,  the  jos 
tling  stevedores,  the  flaming  passion  in  the  Mexican's  face, 
the  glint  of  the  beast-eyes  in  the  starlight,  the  sting  of  the 
steel  in  his  neck,  and  the  rush  of  blood,  the  crowd  and 
the  cries,  the  two  bodies,  his  and  the  Mexican's,  locked 
together,  rolling  over  and  over  and  tearing  up  the  sand, 
and  from  away  off  somewhere  the  mellow  tinkling  of  a 
guitar.  Such  was  the  picture,  and  he  thrilled  to  the 
memory  of  it,  wondering  if  the  man  could  paint  it  who 
had  painted  the  pilot-schooner  on  the  wall.  The  white 
beach,  the  stars,  and  the  lights  of  the  sugar  steamers 
would  look  great,  he  thought,  and  midway  on  the  sand 
the  dark  group  of  figures  that  surrounded  the  fighters. 
The  knife  occupied  a  place  in  the  picture,  he  decided,  and 
would  show  well,  with  a  sort  of  gleam,  in  the  light  of  the 
stars.  But  of  all  this  no  hint  had  crept  into  his  speech. 
"  He  tried  to  bite  off  my  nose,"  he  concluded. 

"  Oh,"  the  girl  said,  in  a  faint,  far  voice,  and  he  noticed 
the  shock  in  her  sensitive  face. 

He  felt  a  shock  himself,  and  a  blush  of  embarrassment 
shone  faintly  on  his  sunburned  cheeks,  though  to  him  it 
burned  as  hotly  as  when  his  cheeks  had  been  exposed  to 
the  open  furnace-door  in  the  fire-room.  Such  sordid 
things  as  stabbing  affrays  were  evidently  not  fit  subjects 
for  conversation  with  a  lady.  People  in  the  books,  in  her 
walk  of  life,  did  not  talk  about  such  things  —  perhaps  they 
did  not  know  about  them,  either. 

There  was  a  brief  pause  in  the  conversation  they  were 
trying  to  get  started.  Then  she  asked  tentatively  about 
the  scar  on  his  cheek.  Even  as  she  asked,  he  realized 
that  she  was  making  an  effort  to  talk  his  talk,  and  he 
resolved  to  get  away  from  it  and  talk  hers. 

"  It  was  just  an  accident,"  he  said,  putting  his  hand  to 
his  cheek.  "  One  night,  in  a  calm,  with  a  heavy  sea 
running,  the  main-boom-lift  carried  away,  an'  next  the 
tackle.  The  lift  was  wir«.  an'  it  was  threshin'  around 


8  MARTIN  EDEN 

like  a  snake.  The  whole  watch  was  tryin'  to  grab  it,  an* 
I  rushed  in  an'  got  swatted." 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  this  time  with  an  accent  of  comprehen 
sion,  though  secretly  his  speech  had  been  so  much  Greek 
to  her  and  she  was  wondering  what  a  lift  was  and  what 
swatted  meant. 

"  This  man  Swineburne,"  he  began,  attempting  to  put 
his  plan  into  execution  and  pronouncing  the  i  long. 

"Who?" 

"Swineburne,"  he  repeated,  with  the  same  mispronun 
ciation.  "  The  poet." 

"  Swinburne,"  she  corrected. 

"Yes,  that's  the  chap,"  he  stammered,  his  cheeks  hot 
again.  "  How  long  since  he  died  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  haven't  heard  that  he  was  dead."  She  looked 
at  him  curiously.  "Where  did  you  make  his  acquaint 
ance  ?  " 

"  I  never  clapped  eyes  on  him,"  was  the  reply.  "  But  I 
read  some  of  his  poetry  out  of  that  book  there  on  the 
table  just  before  you  come  in.  How  do  you  like  his 
poetry  ?  " 

And  thereat  she  began  to  talk  quickly  and  easily  upon 
the  subject  he  had  suggested.  He  felt  better,  and  settled 
back  slightly  from  the  edge  of  the  chair,  holding  tightly 
to  its  arms  with  his  hands,  as  if  it  might  get  away  from 
him  and  buck  him  to  the  floor.  He  had  succeeded  in 
making  her  talk  her  talk,  and  while  she  rattled  on,  he 
strove  to  follow  her,  marvelling  at  all  the  knowledge  that 
was  stowed  away  in  that  pretty  head  of  hers,  and  drink 
ing  in  the  pale  beauty  of  her  face.  Follow  her  he  did, 
though  bothered  by  unfamiliar  words  that  fell  glibly  from 
her  lips  and  by  critical  phrases  and  thought-processes 
that  were  foreign  to  his  mind,  but  that  nevertheless 
stimulated  his  mind  and  set  it  tingling.  Here  was  in 
tellectual  life,  he  thought,  and  here  was  beauty,  warm 
and  wonderful  as  he  had  never  dreamed  it  could  be.  He 
forgot  himself  and  stared  at  her  with  hungry  eyes.  Here 
was  something  to  live  for,  to  win  to,  to  fight  for  —  ay,  and 
die  for.  The  books  were  true.  There  were  such  women 


MARTIN  EDEN  9 

in  the  world.  She  was  one  of  them.  She  lent  wings  to 
his  imagination,  and  great,  luminous  canvases  spread 
themselves  before  him,  whereon  loomed  vague,  gigantic 
figures  of  love  and  romance,  and  of  heroic  deeds  for 
woman's  sake  —  for  a  pale  woman,  a  flower  of  gold.  And 
through  the  swaying,  palpitant  vision,  as  through  a  fairy 
mirage,  he  stared  at  the  real  woman,  sitting  there  and 
talking  of  literature  and  art.  He  listened  as  well,  but  he 
stared,  unconscious  of  the  fixity  of  his  gaze  or  of  the  fact 
that  all  that  was  essentially  masculine  in  his  nature  was 
shining  in  his  eyes.  But  she,  who  knew  little  of  the  world 
of  men,  being  a  woman,  was  keenly  aware  of  his  burning 
eyes.  She  had  never  had  men  look  at  her  in  such  fashion, 
and  it  embarrassed  her.  She  stumbled  and  halted  in  her 
utterance.  The  thread  of  argument  slipped  from  her. 
He  frightened  her,  and  at  the  same  time  it  was  strangely 
pleasant  to  be  so  looked  upon.  Her  training  warned  her 
of  peril  and  of  wrong,  subtle,  mysterious,  luring;  while 
her  instincts  rang  clarion-voiced  through  her  being,  im 
pelling  her  to  hurdle  caste  and  place  and  gain  to  this 
traveller  from  another  world,  to  this  uncouth  young  fellow 
with  lacerated  hands  and  a  line  of  raw  red  caused  by  the 
unaccustomed  linen  at  his  throat,  who,  all  too  evidently, 
was  soiled  and  tainted  by  ungracious  existence.  She  was 
clean,  and  her  cleanness  revolted;  but  she  was  woman, 
and  she  was  just  beginning  to  learn  the  paradox  of 
woman. 

"  As  I  was  saying  —  what  was  I  saying  ?  "  She  broke 
off  abruptly  and  laughed  merrily  at  her  predicament. 

"  You  was  saying  that  this  man  Swinburne  failed  bein' 
a  great  poet  because  —  an'  that  was  as  far  as  you  got, 
miss,"  he  prompted,  while  to  himself  he  seemed  suddenly 
hungry,  and  delicious  little  thrills  crawled  up  and  down 
his  spine  at  the  sound  of  her  laughter.  Like  silver,  he 
thought  to  himself,  like  tinkling  silver  bells;  and  on  the 
instant,  and  for  an  instant,  he  was  transported  to  a  far 
land,  where  under  pink  cherry  blossoms,  he  smoked  a  cig 
arette  and  listened  to  the  bells  of  the  peaked  pagoda  call 
ing  straw-sandalled  devotees  to  worship. 


10  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  Yes,  thank  you,"  she  said.  "  Swinburne  fails,  when  all 
is  said,  because  he  is,  well,  indelicate.  There  are  many  of 
his  poems  that  should  never  be  read.  Every  line  of  the 
really  great  poets  is  filled  with  beautiful  truth,  and  calls 
to  all  that  is  high  and  noble  in  the  human.  Not  a  line  of 
the  great  poets  can  be  spared  without  impoverishing  the 
world  by  that  much." 

"  I  thought  it  was  great,"  he  said  hesitatingly,  "  the 
little  I  read.  I  had  no  idea  he  was  such  a  —  a  scoundrel. 
I  guess  that  crops  out  in  his  other  books." 

"  There  are  many  lines  that  could  be  spared  from  the 
book  you  were  reading,"  she  said,  her  voice  primly  firm 
and  dogmatic. 

"  I  must  'a'  missed  'em,"  he  announced.  "  What  I  read 
was  the  real  goods.  It  was  all  lighted  up  an'  shining,  an' 
it  shun  right  into  me  an'  lighted  me  up  inside,  like  the  sun 
or  a  searchlight.  That's  the  way  it  landed  on  me,  but  I 
guess  I  ain't  up  much  on  poetry,  miss." 

He  broke  off  lamely.  He  was  confused,  painfully  con 
scious  of  his  inarticulateness.  He  had  felt  the  bigness  and 
glow  of  life  in  what  he  had  read,  but  his  speech  was  inade 
quate.  He  could  not  express  what  he  felt,  and  to  himself 
he  likened  himself  to  a  sailor,  in  a  strange  ship,  on  a  dark 
night,  groping  about  in  the  unfamiliar  running  rigging. 
Well,  he  decided,  it  was  up  to  him  to  get  acquainted  in 
this  new  world.  He  had  never  seen  anything  that  he 
couldn't  get  the  hang  of  when  he  wanted  to  and  it  was 
about  time  for  him  to  want  to  learn  to  talk  the  things  that 
were  inside  of  him  so  that  she  could  understand.  She 
was  bulking  large  on  his  horizon. 

"  Now  Longfellow  - —  "  she  was  saying. 

"  Yes,  I've  read  'm,"  he  broke  in  impulsively,  spurred 
on  to  exhibit  and  make  the  most  of  his  little  store  of 
book  knowledge,  desirous  of  showing  her  that  he  was  not 
wholly  a  stupid  clod.  "  '  The  Psalm  of  Life,'  *  Excelsior,' 
an'  ....  I  guess  that's  all." 

She  nodded  her  head  and  smiled,  and  he  felt,  somehow, 
that  her  smile  was  tolerant,  pitifully  tolerant.  He  was 
a  fool  to  attempt  to  make  a  pretence  that  way.  That 


MARTIN  EDEN  11 

Longfellow  chap  most  likely  had  written  countless  books 
of  poetry. 

"  Excuse  me,  miss,  for  buttin'  in  that  way.  I  guess  the 
real  facts  is  that  I  don't  know  nothin'  much  about  such 
things.  It  ain't  in  my  class.  But  I'm  goin'  to  make  it  in 
my  class." 

It  sounded  like  a  threat.  His  voice  was  determined, 
his  eyes  were  flashing,  the  lines  of  his  face  had  grown 
harsh.  And  to  her  it  seemed  that  the  angle  of  his  jaw  had 
changed;  its  pitch  had  become  unpleasantly  aggressive. 
At  the  same  time  a  wave  of  intense  virility  seemed  to  surge 
out  from  him  and  impinge  upon  her. 

"I  think  you  could  make  it  in  —  in  your  class,"  she 
finished  with  a  laugh.  "  You  are  very  strong." 

Her  gaze  rested  for  a  moment  on  the  muscular  neck, 
heavy  corded,  almost  bull-like,  bronzed  by  the  sun,  spilling 
over  with  rugged  health  and  strength.  And  though  he  sat 
there,  blushing  and  humble,  again  she  felt  drawn  to  him. 
She  was  surprised  by  a  wanton  thought  that  rushed  into 
her  mind.  It  seemed  to  her  that  if  she  could  lay  her  two 
hands  upon  that  neck  that  all  its  strength  and  vigor  would 
flow  out  to  her.  She  was  shocked  by  this  thought.  It 
seemed  to  reveal  to  her  an  undreamed  depravity  in  her 
nature.  Besides,  strength  to  her  was  a  gross  and  brutish 
thing.  Her  ideal  of  masculine  beauty  had  always  been 
slender  gracefulness.  Yet  the  thought  still  persisted.  It 
bewildered  her  that  she  should  desire  to  place  her  hands  on 
that  sunburned  neck.  In  truth,  she  was  far  from  robust, 
and  the  need  of  her  body  and  mind  was  for  strength.  But 
she  did  not  know  it.  She  knew  only  that  no  man  had 
ever  affected  her  before  as  this  one  had,  who  shocked  her 
from  moment  to  moment  with  his  awful  grammar. 

"  Yes,  I  ain't  no  invalid,"  he  said.  "  When  it  comes 
down  to  hard-pan,  I  can  digest  scrap-iron.  But  just  now 
I've  got  dyspepsia.  Most  of  what  you  was  sayin'  I  can't 
digest.  Never  trained  that  way,  you  see.  I  like  books 
and  poetry,  and  what  time  I've  had  I've  read  'em,  but  I've 
never  thought  about  'em  the  way  you  have.  That's  why 
I  can't  talk  about  'em.  I'm  like  a  navigator  adrift  on  a 


12  MARTIN  EDEN 

strange  sea  without  chart  or  compass.  Now  I  want  to  get 
my  bearin's.  Mebbe  you  can  put  me  right.  How  did  you 
learn  all  this  you've  ben  talkin'  ?  " 

"  By  going  to  school,  I  fancy,  and  by  studying,"  she 
answered. 

"  I  went  to  school  when  I  was  a  kid,"  he  began  to 
object. 

"Yes;  but  I  mean  high  school,  and  lectures,  and  the 
university." 

"  You've  gone  to  the  university  ?  "  he  demanded  in 
frank  amazement.  He  felt  that  she  had  become  remoter 
from  him  by  at  least  a  million  miles. 

"  I'm  going  there  now.  I'm  taking  special  courses  in 
English." 

He  did  not  know  what  "  English  "  meant,  but  he  made 
a  mental  note  of  that  item  of  ignorance  and  passed  on. 

"  How  long  would  I  have  to  study  before  I  could  go  to 
the  university  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  beamed  encouragement  upon  his  desire  for  knowl 
edge,  and  said:  "That  depends  upon  how  much  studying 
you  have  already  done.  You  have  never  attended  high 
school?  Of  course  not.  But  did  you  finish  grammar 
school  ?  " 

"I  had  two  years  to  run,  when  I  left,"  he  answered. 
"  But  I  was  always  honorably  promoted  at  school." 

The  next  moment,  angry  with  himself  for  the  boast,  he 
had  gripped  the  arms  of  the  chair  so  savagely  that  every 
finger-end  was  stinging.  At  the  same  moment  he  became 
aware  that  a  woman  was  entering  the  room.  He  saw  the 
girl  leave  her  chair  and  trip  swiftly  across  the  floor  to  the 
newcomer.  They  kissed  each  other,  and,  with  arms 
around  each  other's  waists,  they  advanced  toward  him. 
That  must  be  her  mother,  he  thought.  She  was  a  tall', 
blond  woman,  slender,  and  stately,  and  beautiful.  Her 
gown  was  what  he  might  expect  in  such  a  house.  His 
eyes  delighted  in  tUe  graceful  lines  of  it.  She  and  her 
dress  together  reminded  him  of  women  on  the  stage. 
Then  he  remembered  seeing  similar  grand  ladies  and 
gowns  entering  the  London  theatres  while  he  stood  and 


MARTIN  EDEN  13 

watched  and  the  policemen  shoved  him  back  into  the  driz 
zle  beyond  the  awning.  Next  his  mind  leaped  to  the 
Grand  Hotel  at  Yokohama,  where,  too,  from  the  side 
walk,  he  had  seen  grand  ladies.  Then  the  city  and  the 
harbor  of  Yokohama,  in  a  thousand  pictures,  began  flash 
ing  before  his  eyes.  But  he  swiftly  dismissed  the  kaleido 
scope  of  memory,  oppressed  by  the  urgent  need  of  the 
present.  He  knew  that  he  must  stand  up  to  be  intro 
duced,  and  he  struggled  painfully  to  his  feet,  where  he 
stood  with  trousers  bagging  at  the  knees,  his  arms  loose- 
hanging  and  ludicrous,  his  face  set  hard  for  the  impend 
ing  ordeal. 


CHAPTER  n 

THE  process  of  getting  into  the  dining  room  was  a 
nightmare  to  him.  Between  halts  and  stumbles,  jerks  and 
lurches,  locomotion  had  at  times  seemed  impossible.  But 
at  last  he  had  made  it,  and  was  seated  alongside  of  Her. 
The  array  of  knives  and  forks  frightened  him.  They 
bristled  with  unknown  perils,  and  he  gazed  at  them,  fas 
cinated,  till  their  dazzle  became  a  background  across 
which  moved  a  succession  of  forecastle  pictures,  wherein 
he  and  his  mates  sat  eating  salt  beef  with  sheath-knives 
and  fingers,  or  scooping  thick  pea-soup  out  of  pannikins 
by  means  of  battered  iron  spoons.  The  stench  of  bad 
beef  was  in  his  nostrils,  while  in  his  ears,  to  the  accom 
paniment  of  creaking  timbers  and  groaning  bulkheads, 
echoed  the  loud  mouth-noises  of  the  eaters.  He  watched 
them  eating,  and  decided  that  they  ate  like  pigs.  Well, 
he  would  be  careful  here.  He  would  make  no  noise.  He 
would  keep  his  mind  upon  it  all  the  time. 

He  glanced  around  the  table.  Opposite  him  was 
Arthur,  and  Arthur's  brother,  Norman.  They  were  her 
brothers,  he  reminded  himself,  and  his  heart  warmed  tow 
ard  them.  How  they  loved  each  other,  the  members  of 
this  family  !  There  flashed  into  his  mind  the  picture  of 
her  mother,  of  the  kiss  of  greeting,  and  of  the  pair  of  them 
walking  toward  him  with  arms  entwined.  Not  in  his 
world  were  such  displays  of  affection  between  parents  and 
children  made.  It  was  a  revelation  of  the  heights  of 
existence  that  were  attained  in  the  world  above.  It  was 
the  finest  thing  yet  that  he  had  seen  in  this  small  glimpse 
of  that  world.  He  was  moved  deeply  by  appreciation  of 
it,  and  his  heart  was  melting  with  sympathetic  tenderness. 
He  had  starved  for  love  all  his  life.  His  nature  craved 
love.  It  was  an  organic  demand  of  his  being.  Yet  he 

14 


MARTIN  EDEN  15 

had  gone  without,  and  hardened  himself  in  the  proceos. 
He  had  not  known  that  he  needed  love.  Nor  did  he  know 
it  now.  He  merely  saw  it  in  operation,  and  thrilled  to  it, 
and  thought  it  fine,  and  high,  and  splendid. 

He  was  glad  that  Mr.  Morse  was  not  there.  It  was 
difficult  enough  getting  acquainted  with  her,  and  her 
mother,  and  her  brother,  Norman.  Arthur  he  already 
knew  somewhat.  The  father  would  have  been  too  much 
for  him,  he  felt  sure.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  never 
worked  so  hard  in  his  life.  The  severest  toil  was  child's 
play  compared  with  this.  Tiny  nodules  of  moisture  stood 
out  on  his  forehead,  and  his  shirt  was  wet  with  sweat  from 
the  exertion  of  doing  so  many  unaccustomed  things  at 
once.  He  had  to  eat  as  he  had  never  eaten  before,  to 
handle  strange  tools,  to  glance  surreptitiously  about  and 
learn  how  to  accomplish  each  new  thing,  to  receive  the 
flood  of  impressions  that  was  pouring  in  upon  him  and 
being  mentally  annotated  and  classified;  to  be  conscious 
of  a  yearning  for  her  that  perturbed  him  in  the  form  of  a 
dull,  aching  restlessness;  to  feel  the  prod  of  desire  to  win 
to  the  walk  in  life  whereon  she  trod,  and  to  have  his 
mind  ever  and  again  straying  off  in  speculation  and  vague 
plans  of  how  to  reach  to  her.  Also,  when  his  secret 
glance  went  across  to  Norman  opposite  him,  or  to  any  one 
else,  to  ascertain  just  what  knife  or  fork  was  to  be  used 
in  any  particular  occasion,  that  person's  features  were 
seized  upon  by  his  mind,  which  automatically  strove  to 
appraise  them  and  to  divine  what  they  were  —  all  in 
relation  to  her.  Then  he  had  to  talk,  to  hear  what  was 
said  to  him  and  what  was  said  back  and  forth,  and  to 
answer,  when  it  was  necessary,  with  a  tongue  prone  to 
looseness  of  speech  that  required  a  constant  curb.  And 
to  add  confusion  to  confusion,  there  was  the  servant,  an 
unceasing  menace,  that  appeared  noiselessly  at  his  shoul 
der,  a  dire  Sphinx  that  propounded  puzzles  and  co 
nundrums  d  manding  instantaneous  solution.  He  was 
oppressed  throughout  the  meal  by  the  thought  of  finger- 
bowls.  Irrelevantly,  insistently,  scores  of  times,  he  won 
dered  when  they  would  come  OH  and  what  they  looked 


16  MARTIN  EDEN 

like.  He  had  heard  of  such  things,  and  now,  sooner  or 
later,  somewhere  in  the  next  few  minutes,  he  would  see 
them,  sit  at  table  with  exalted  beings  who  used  them  — 
ay,  and  he  would  use  them  himself.  And  most  important 
of  all,  far  down  and  yet  always  at  the  surface  of  his 
thought,  was  the  problem  of  how  he  should  comport  him 
self  toward  these  persons.  What  should  his  attitude  be  ? 
He  wrestled  continually  and  anxiously  with  the  problem. 
There  were  cowardly  suggestions  that  he  should  make 
believe,  assume  a  part;  and  there  were  still  more  cowardly 
suggestions  that  warned  him  he  would  fail  in  such  course, 
that  his  nature  was  not  fitted  to  live  up  to  it,  and  that  he 
would  make  a  fool  of  himself. 

It  was  during  the  first  part  of  the  dinner,  struggling  to 
decide  upon  his  attitude,  that  he  was  very  quiet.  He  did 
not  know  that  his  quietness  was  giving  the  lie  to  Arthur's 
words  of  the  day  before,  when  that  brother  of  hers  had 
announced  that  he  was  going  to  bring  a  wild  man  home 
to  dinner  and  for  them  not  to  be  alarmed,  because  they 
would  find  him  an  interesting  wild  man.  Martin  Eden 
could  not  have  found  it  in  him,  just  then,  to  believe  that 
her  brother  could  be  guilty  of  such  treachery  —  especially 
when  he  had  been  the  means  of  getting  this  particular 
brother  out  of  an  unpleasant  row.  So  he  sat  at  table,  per 
turbed  by  his  own  unfitness  and  at  the  same  time  charmed 
by  all  that  went  on  about  him.  For  the  first  time  he 
realized  that  eating  was  something  more  than  a  utilita 
rian  function.  He  was  unaware  of  what  he  ate.  It  was 
merely  food.  He  was  feasting  his  love  of  beauty  at  this 
table  where  eating  was  an  aesthetic  function.  It  was  an 
intellectual  function,  too.  His  mind  was  stirred.  He 
heard  words  spoken  that  were  meaningless  to  him,  and 
other  words  that  he  had  seen  only  in  books  and  that  no 
man  or  woman  he  had  known  was  of  large  enough  mental 
caliber  to  pronounce.  When  he  heard  such  words  drop 
ping  carelessly  from  the  lips  of  the  membe  s  of  this  mar 
vellous  family,  her  family,  he  thrilled  with  delight.  The 
romance,  and  beauty,  and  high  vigor  of  the  books  were 
coming  true.  He  was  in  that  rare  and  blissful  state 


MARTIN  EDEN  17 

wherein  a  man  sees  his  dreams  stalk  out  from  the  cran 
nies  of  fantasy  and  become  fact. 

Never  had  he  been  at  such  an  altitude  of  living,  and 
he  kept  himself  in  the  background,  listening,  observing, 
and  pleasuring,  replying  in  reticent  monosyllables,  saying 
"  Yes,  m  ss,"  and  "  No,  miss,"  to  her,  and  "  Yes,  ma'am," 
and  "  No,  ma'am,"  to  her  mother.  He  curbed  the  impulse, 
arising  out  of  his  sea-ti  aining,  to  say  "  Yes,  sir,"  and  "  No, 
S;T,"  to  her  brothers.  He  felt  that  it  would  be  inappro 
priate  and  a  confession  of  inferiority  on  his  part — which 
would  ne  ver  do  if  he  was  to  win  to  her.  Also,  it  was  a  dic 
tate  of  his  pride.  "  By  God !  "  he  cried  to  himself,  once ; 
"  I'm  just  as  good  as  them,  and  if  they  do  know  lots  that 
I  don't,  I  could  learn  'm  a  few  myself,  all  the  same ! " 
And  the  next  moment,  when  she  or  her  mother  addressed 
him  as  "  Mr.  Eden,"  his  aggressive  pride  was  forgotten, 
and  he  was  glowing  and  w  irm  with  delight.  He  was  a 
civilized  man,  that  was  what  he  was,  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
at  dinner,  with  people  he  had  read  about  in  books.  He 
was  in  the  books  himself,  adventuring  through  the  printed 
pages  of  bound  volumes. 

But  while  he  belied  Arthur's  description,  and  appeared 
a  gentle  lamb  rather  than  a  wild  man,  he  was  racking  his 
brains  for  a  course  of  action.  He  was  no  gentle  lamb, 
and  the  part  of  second  fiddle  would  never  do  for  the  high- 
pitched  dominance  of  his  nature.  He  talked  only  when 
he  had  to,  and  then  his  speech  was  like  his  walk  to  the 
table,  filled  with  jerks  and  halts  as  he  groped  in  his  poly 
glot  vocabulary  for  words,  debating  over  words  he  knew 
were  fit  but  which  he  feared  he  could  not  pronounce, 
rejecting  other  words  he  knew  would  not  be  understood 
or  wculd  be  raw  and  harsh.  But  all  the  time  he  was 
oppressed  by  the  consciousness  that  this  carefulness  of 
diction  was  making  a  booby  of  him,  preventing  him  from 
expressing  what  he  had  in  him.  Also,  his  love  of  free 
dom  chafed  against  the  restriction  in  much  the  same  way 
his  neck  chafed  against  the  starched  fetter  of  a  collar. 
Besides,  he  was  confident  that  he  could  not  keep  it  up. 
He  was  by  nature  powerful  of  thought  and  sensibility, 


18  MARTIN  EDEN 

and  the  creative  spirit  was  restive  and  urgent.  He  was 
swiftiy  mastered  by  the  concept  or  sensation  in  him  that 
struggled  in  birth-throes  to  receive  expression  and  form, 
and  then  he  forgot  himself  and  where  he  was,  and  the  old 
words  —  the  tools  of  speech  he  knew  —  slipped  out. 

Once,  he  declined  something  from  the  serv  mi  wh<» 
interrupted  and  pestered  at  his  shoulder,  and  he  said, 
shortly  and  emphatically,  "  Pow !  " 

On  the  instant  those  at  the  table  were  keyed  up  and 
expectant,  the  servant  was  smugly  pleased,  and  he  was 
wallowing  in  mortification.  But  he  recovered  himseb 
quickly. 

"  It's  the  Kanaka  for  '  finish, ' "  he  explained,  "  and  it 
just  come  out  naturally.  It's  spelt  p-a-u." 

He  caught  her  curious  and  speculative  eyes  fh  ed  on  his 
hands,  and,  being  in  explanatory  irood,  he  &  id :  — 

"  I  just  come  down  the  Coa  ?t  on  one  of  the  Pacific  mail 
steamers.  She  was  behind  time,  an'  around  the  Puget 
Sound  ports  we  worked  like  niggers,  storing  cargo  — 
mixed  freight,  if  you  know  what  that  means.  That's 
how  the  skin  got  knocked  off." 

"  Oh,  it  wasn't  that,"  she  hastened  to  explain,  in  turn. 
"Your  hands  seemed  too  small  for  your  body." 

His  cheeks  were  hot.  He  took  it  as  an  exposure  of 
another  of  his  deficiencies. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  depreciatingly.  "  They  ain't  big  enough 
to  stand  the  strain.  1  can  hit  like  a  mule  with  my  arms 
and  shoulders.  They  are  too  strong,  an'  when  I  smash  a 
man  on  the  jaw  the  hands  get  smashed,  too." 

He  was  not  happy  at  what  he  had  said.  He  was  filled 
with  disgust  at  himself.  He  had  loosed  the  guard  upon 
his  tongue  and  talked  about  things  that  were  not  nica. 

"  It  was  brave  of  you  to  help  Arthur  the  way  you  did 
—  and  you  a  stranger,"  she  said  tactfully,  aware  of  his 
discomfiture  though  not  of  the  reason  for  it. 

He,  in  turn,  realized  what  she  had  done,  and  in  the 
consequent  warm  surge  of  gratefulness  that  overwhelmed 
him  forgot  his  loose-worded  tongue. 

"  It  wasn't  nothin'  at  all,"  he  said.    "  Any  guy  'ud  do  it 


MARTIN  EDEN  19 

for  another.  That  bunch  of  hoodlums  was  lookin*  for 
trouble,  an'  Arthur  wasn't  botherin'  'em  none.  They 
butted  in  on  'm,  an'  then  I  butted  in  on  them  an'  poked  a 
few.  That's  where  some  of  the  skin  off  my  hands  went, 
along  with  some  of  the  teeth  of  the  gang.  I  wouldn't 
V  missed  it  for  anything.  When  I  seen  —  " 

He  paused,  open-mouthed,  on  the  verge  of  the  pit  of 
his  own  depravity  and  utter  worthlessness  to  breathe  the 
same  air  she  did.  And  while  Arthur  took  up  the  tale,  for 
the  twentieth  time,  of  his  adventure  with  the  drunken 
hoodlums  on  the  ferry-boat  and  of  how  Martin  Eden  had 
rushed  in  and  rescued  him,  that  individual,  with  frowning 
brows,  meditated  upon  the  fool  he  had  made  of  himself, 
and  wrestled  more  determinedly  with  the  problem  of  how 
he  should  conduct  himself  toward  these  people.  He  cer 
tainly  had  not  succeeded  so  far.  He  wasn't  of  their  tribe, 
and  he  couldn't  talk  their  lingo,  was  the  way  he  put  it  to 
himself.  He  couldn't  fake  being  their  kind.  The  mas 
querade  would  fail,  and  besides,  masquerade  was  foreign 
to  his  nature.  There  was  no  room  in  him  for  sham  or  arti 
fice.  Whatever  happened,  he  must  be  real.  He  couldn't  talk 
their  talk  just  yet,  though  in  time  he  would.  Upon  that 
he  was  resolved.  But  in  the  meantime,  talk  he  must,  and 
it  must  be  his  own  talk,  toned  down,  of  course,  so  as  to  be 
comprehensible  to  them  and  so  as  not  to  shock  them  too 
much.  And  furthermore,  he  wouldn't  claim,  not  even  by 
tacit  acceptance,  to  be  familiar  with  anything  that  was 
unfamiliar.  In  pursuance  of  this  decision,  when  the  two 
brothers,  talking  university  shop,  had  used  "  trig  "  several 
times,  Martin  Eden  demanded:  — 

"What  is  trig?" 

"  Trignometry,"  Norman  said;  "  a  higher  form  of  math." 

"  And  what  is  mat h  ?  "  was  the  next  question,  which, 
somehow,  brought  the  laugh  on  Norman. 

"  Mathematics,  arithmetic,"  was  the  answer. 

Martin  Eden  nodded.  He  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
apparently  illimitable  vistas  of  knowledge.  What  he  saw 
took  on  tangibility.  His  abnormal  power  of  vision  made 
abstractions  take  on  concrete  form.  In  the  alchemy  of 


20  MARTIN  EDEN 

his  brain,  trigonometry  and  mathematics  and  the  whole 
field  of  knowledge  which  they  betokened  were  transmuted 
into  so  much  landscape.  The  vistas  he  saw  were  vistas  of 
green  foliage  and  forest  glades,  all  softly  luminous  or  shot 
through  with  flashing  lights.  In  the  distance,  detail  was 
veiled  and  blurred  by  a  purple  haze,  but  behind  this  pur 
ple  haze,  he  knew,  was  the  glamour  of  the  unknown,  the 
lure  of  romance.  It  was  like  wine  to  him.  Here  was  ad 
venture,  something  to  do  with  head  and  hand,  a  world  to 
conquer  —  and  straightway  from  the  back  of  his  conscious 
ness  rushed  the  thought,  conquering,  to  win  to  her,  that  lily- 
pale  spirit  sitting  beside  him. 

The  glimmering  vision  was  rent  asunder  and  dissipated 
by  Arthur,  who,  all  evening,  had  been  trying  to  draw 
his  wild  man  out.  Martin  Eden  remembered  his  decision. 
For  the  first  time  he  became  himself,  consciously  and  de 
liberately  at  first,  but  soon  lost  in  the  joy  of  creating,  in 
making  life  as  he  knew  it  appear  before  his  listeners'  eyes. 
He  had  been  a  member  of  the  crew  of  the  smuggling 
schooner  Halcyon  when  she  was  captured  by  a  revenue 
cutter.  He  saw  with  wide  eyes,  and  he  could  tell  what 
he  saw.  He  brought  the  pulsing  sea  before  them,  and  the 
men  and  the  ships  upon  the  sea.  He  communicated  his 
power  of  vision,  till  they  saw  with  his  eyes  what  he  had 
seen.  He  selected  from  the  vast  mass  of  detail  with  an 
artist's  touch,  drawing  pictures  of  life  that  glowed  and 
burned  with  light  and  color,  injecting  movement  so  that 
his  listeners  surged  along  with  him  on  the  flood  of  rough 
eloquence,  enthusiasm,  and  power.  At  times  he  shocked 
them  with  the  vividness  of  the  narrative  and  his  terms  of 
speech,  but  beauty  always  followed  fast  upon  the  heels  of 
violence,  and  tragedy  was  relieved  by  humor,  by  interpre 
tations  of  the  strange  twists  and  quirks  of  sailors'  minds. 

And  while  he  talked,  the  girl  looked  at  him  with  startled 
eyes.  His  fire  warmed  her.  She  wondered  if  she  had  been 
cold  all  her  days.  She  wanted  to  lean  toward  this  burn 
ing,  blazing  man  that  was  like  a  volcano  spouting  forth 
strength,  robustness,  and  health.  She  felt  that  she  must 
lean  toward  him,  and  resisted  by  an  effort.  Then,  too, 


MARTIN  EDEN  21 

there  was  the  counter  impulse  to  shrink  away  from  him. 
She  was  repelled  by  those  lacerated  hands,  grimed  by  toil 
so  that  the  very  dirt  of  life  was  ingrained  in  the  flesh 
itself,  by  that  red  chafe  of  the  collar  and  those  bulging 
muscles.  His  roughness  frightened  her ;  each  roughness 
of  speech  was  an  insult  to  her  ear,  each  rough  phase  of  his 
life  an  insult  to  her  soul.  And  ever  and  again  would 
come  the  draw  of  him,  till  she  thought  he  must  be  evil  to 
have  such  power  over  her.  All  that  was  most  firmly  es 
tablished  in  her  mind  was  rocking.  His  romance  and 
adventure  were  battering  at  the  conventions.  Before  his 
facile  perils  and  ready  laugh,  life  was  no  longer  an  affair 
of  serious  effort  and  restraint,  but  a  toy,  to  be  played  with 
and  turned  topsy-turvy,  carelessly  to  be  lived  and  pleas 
ured  in,  and  carelessly  to  be  flung  aside.  "  Therefore, 
play !  "  was  the  cry  that  rang  through  her.  "  Lean  toward 
him,  if  so  you  will,  and  place  your  two  hands  upon  his 
neck  !  "  She  wanted  to  cry  out  at  the  recklessness  of  the 
thought,  and  in  vain  she  appraised  her  own  cleanness  and 
culture  and  balanced  all  that  she  was  against  what  he  was 
not.  She  glanced  about  her  and  saw  the  others  gazing  at 
him  with  rapt  attention ;  and  she  would  have  despaired 
had  not  she  seen  horror  in  her  mother's  eyes — fascinated 
horror,  it  was  true,  but  none  the  less  horror.  This  man 
from  outer  darkness  was  evil.  Her  mother  saw  it,  and 
her  mother  was  right.  She  would  trust  her  mother's 
judgment  in  this  as  she  had  always  trusted  it  in  all  things. 
The  fire  of  him  was  no  longer  warm,  and  the  fear  of  him 
was  no  longer  poignant. 

Later,  at  the  piano,  she  played  for  him,  and  at  him, 
aggressively,  with  the  vague  intent  of  emphasizing  the 
impassableness  of  the  gulf  that  separated  them.  Her 
music  was  a  club  that  she  swung  brutally  upon  his  head ; 
and  though  it  stunned  him  and  crushed  him  down,  it  in 
cited  him.  He  gazed  upon  her  in  awe.  In  his  mind,  as 
in  her  own,  the  gulf  widened;  but  faster  than  it  widened, 
towered  his  ambition  to  win  across  it.  But  he  was  too 
complicated  a  plexus  of  sensibilities  to  sit  staring  at  a  gulf 
a  whole  evening,  especially  when  there  was  music.  He 


22  MARTIN  EDEN 

was  remarkably  susceptible  to  music.  It  was  like  strong 
drink,  firing  him  to  audacities  of  feeling,  —  a  drug  that  laid 
hold  of  his  imagination  and  went  cloud-soaring  through  the 
sky.  It  banished  sordid  fact,  flooded  his  mind  with  beauty, 
loosed  romance  and  to  its  heels  added  wings.  He  did  not 
understand  the  music  she  played.  It  was  different  from 
the  dance-hall  piano-banging  and  blatant  brass  bands  he 
had  heard.  But  he  had  caught  hints  of  such  music  from 
the  books,  and  he  accepted  her  playing  largely  on  faith, 
patiently  waiting,  at  first,  for  the  lilting  measures  of  pro 
nounced  and  simple  rhythm,  puzzled  because  those  meas 
ures  were  not  long  continued.  Just  as  he  caught  the 
swing  of  them  and  started,  his  imagination  attuned  in 
flight,  always  they  vanished  away  in  a  chaotic  scramble  of 
sounds  that  was  meaningless  to  him,  and  that  dropped  his 
imagination,  an  inert  weight,  back  to  earth. 

Once,  it  entered  his  mind  that  there  was  a  deliberate 
rebuff  in  all  this.  He  caught  her  spirit  of  antagonism  and 
strove  to  divine  the  message  that  her  hands  pronounced 
upon  the  keys.  Then  he  dismissed  the  thought  as  un 
worthy  and  impossible,  and  yielded  himself  more  freely  to 
the  music.  The  old  delightful  condition  began  to  be  in 
duced.  His  feet  were  no  longer  clay,  and  his  flesh  became 
spirit;  before  his  eyes  and  behind  his  eyes  shone  a  great 
glory;  and  then  the  scene  before  him  vanished  and  he  was 
away,  rocking  over  the  world  that  was  to  him  a  very  dear 
world.  The  known  and  the  unknown  were  commingled  in 
the  dream-pageant  that  thronged  his  vision.  He  entered 
strange  ports  of  sun-washed  lands,  and  trod  market-places 
among  barbaric  peoples  that  no  man  had  ever  seen.  The 
scent  of  the  spice  islands  was  in  his  nostrils  as  he  had 
known  it  on  warm,  breathless  nights  at  sea,  or  he  beat  up 
against  the  southeast  trades  through  long  tropic  days, 
sinking  palm-tufted  coral  islets  in  the  turquoise  sea  behind 
and  lifting  palm-tufted  coral  islets  in  the  turquoise  sea  ahead. 
Swift  as  thought  the  pictures  came  and  went.  One  instant 
he  was  astride  a  broncho  and  flying  through  the  fairy- 
colored  Painted  Desert  country ;  the  next  instant  he  was 
gazing  down  through  shimmering  heat  into  the  whited 


MARTIN  EDEN  23 

sepulchre  of  Death  Valley,  or  pulling  an  oar  on  a  freezing 
ocean  where  great  ice  islands  towered  and  glistened  in  the 
sun.  He  lay  on  a  coral  beach  where  the  cocoanuts  grew 
down  to  the  mellow-sounding  surf.  The  hulk  of  an  ancient 
wreck  burned  with  blue  fires,  in  the  light  of  which  danced 
the  hula  dancers  to  the  barbaric  love-calls  of  the  singers, 
who  cLanted  to  tinkling  ukuleles  and  rumbling  tom-toms. 
It  was  a  sensuous,  tropic  night.  In  the  background  a 
volcano  crater  was  silhouetted  against  the  stars.  Over 
head  drifted  a  pale  crescent  moon,  and  the  Southern  Cross 
burned  low  in  the  sky. 

He  was  a  harp;  all  life  that  he  had  known  and  that  was 
his  consciousness  was  the  strings;  and  the  flood  of  music 
was  a  wind  that  poured  against  those  strings  and  set  them 
vibrating  with  memories  and  dreams.  He  did  not  merely 
feel.  Sensation  invested  itself  in  form  and  color  and 
radiance,  and  what  his  imagination  dared,  it  objectified  in 
some  sublimated  and  magic  way.  Past,  present,  and 
future  mingled;  and  he  went  on  oscillating  across  the 
broad,  warm  world,  through  high  adventure  and  noble 
deeds  to  Her — ay,  and  with  her,  winning  her,  his  arm 
about  her,  and  carrying  her  on  in  flight  through  the  empery 
of  his  mind. 

And  she,  glancing  at  him  across  her  shoulder,  saw  some 
thing  of  all  this  in  his  face.  It  was  a  transfigured  face, 
with  great  shining  eyes  that  gazed  beyond  the  veil  of 
sound  and  saw  behind  it  the  leap  and  pulse  of  life  and  the 
gigantic  phantoms  of  the  spirit.  She  was  startled.  The 
raw,  stumbling  lout  was  gone.  The  ill-fitting  clothes, 
battered  hands,  and  sunburned  face  remained ;  but  these 
seemed  the  prison-bars  through  which  she  saw  a  great  soul 
looking  forth,  inarticulate  and  dumb  because  of  those 
feeble  lips  that  would  not  give  it  speech.  Only  for  a 
flashing  moment  did  she  see  this,  then  she  saw  the  lout 
returned,  and  she  laughed  at  the  vhim  of  her  fancy.  But 
the  impression  of  that  fleeting  glimpse  lingered,  and  when 
the  time  came  for  him  to  beat  a  stumbling  retreat  and  go, 
she  lent  him  the  volume  of  Swinburne,  and  another  of 
Browning  —  she  was  studying  Browning  in  one  of  her 


24  MARTIN  EDEN 

English  courses.  He  seemed  such  a  boy,  as  he  stood 
blushing  and  stammering  his  thanks,  that  a  wave  of  pity, 
maternal  in  its  prompting,  welled  up  in  her.  She  did  not 
remember  the  lout,  nor  the  imprisoned  soul,  nor  the  man 
who  had  stared  at  her  in  all  masculineness  and  delighted 
and  frightened  her.  She  saw  before  her  only  a  boy,  who 
was  shaking  her  hand  with  a  hand  so  calloused  that  .t  felt 
like  a  nutmeg-grater  and  rasped  her  skin,  and  who  was 
saying  jerkily :  — 

"  The  greatest  time  of  my  life.  You  see,  I  ain't  used  to 
things.  ..."  He  looked  about  him  helplessly.  "  T@ 
people  and  houses  like  this.  It's  all  new  to  me,  and  I 
like  it." 

"  I  hope  you'll  call  again,'  she  said,  as  he  was  saying 
good  night  to  her  brothers. 

He  pulled  on  his  cap,  lurched  desperately  through  the 
doorway,  and  was  gone. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  him  ?  "  Arthur  demanded. 

"He  is  most  interesting,  a  whiff  of  ozone,"  she  answered. 
"  How  old  is  he  ?  " 

"  Twenty —  almost  twenty-one.  I  asked  him  this  after 
noon.  I  didn't  think  he  was  that  young." 

And  I  am  three  years  older,  was  the  thought  in  her 
mind  as  she  kissed  her  brothers  good  night. 


CHAPTER  III 

As  Martin  Eden  went  down  the  steps,  his  hand  dropped 
into  his  coat  pocket.  It  came  out  with  a  brown  rice 
paper  and  a  pinch  of  Mexican  tobacco,  which  were  deftly 
rolled  together  into  a  cigarette.  He  drew  the  first  whiff 
of  smoke  deep  into  his  lungs  and  expelled  it  in  a  long 
and  lingering  exhalation.  "  By  God ! "  he  said  aloud,  in 
a  voice  of  awe  and  wonder.  "By  God!"  he  repeated. 
And  yet  again  he  murmured,  "By  God ! "  Then  his  hand 
went  to  his  collar,  which  lie  ripped  out  of  the  shirt  and 
stuffed  into  his  pocket.  A  cold  drizzle  was  falling,  but 
he  bared  his  head  to  it  and  unbuttoned  his  vest,  swinging 
along  in  splendid  unconcern.  He  was  only  dimly  aware 
that  it  was  raining.  He  was  in  an  ecstasy,  dreaming 
dreams  and  reconstructing  the  scenes  just  past. 

He  had  met  the  woman  at  last  —  the  woman  that  he  had 
thought  little  about,  not  being  given  to  thinking  about 
women,  but  whom  he  had  expected,  in  a  remote  way, 
he  would  sometime  meet.  He  had  sat  next  to  her  at 
table.  He  had  felt  her  hand  in  his,  he  had  looked  into 
her  eyes  and  caught  a  vision  of  a  beautiful  spirit; — but 
no  more  beautiful  than  the  eyes  through  which  it  shone, 
nor  than  the  flesh  that  gave  it  expression  and  form.  He  did 
not  think  of  her  flesh  as  flesh, — which  was  new  to  him; 
for  of  the  women  he  had  known  that  was  the  only  way 
he  thought.  Her  flesh  was  somehow  different.  He  did 
not  conceive  of  her  body  as  a  body,  subject  to  the  ills 
and  frailties  of  bodies.  Her  body  was  more  than  the 
garb  of  her  spirit.  It  was  an  emanation  of  her  spirit, 
a  pure  and  gracious  crystallization  of  her  divine  essence. 
This  feeling  of  the  divine  startled  him.  It  shocked  him 
from  his  dreams  to  sober  thought.  No  word,  no  clew, 
no  hint,  of  the  divine  had  ever  reached  him  before.  He 

25 


26  MARTIN  EDEN 

had  never  believed  in  the  divine.  He  had  always  been 
irreligious,  scoffing  good-naturedly  at  the  sky -pilots  and 
their  immortality  of  the  soul.  There  was  no  life  beyond, 
he  had  contended;  it  was  here  and  now,  then  darkness 
everlasting.  But  what  he  had  seen  in  her  eyes  was  soul 
—  immortal  soul  that  could  never  die.  No  man  he  had 
known,  nor  any  woman,  had  given  him  the  message  of 
immortality.  But  she  had.  She  had  whispered  it  to  him 
the  first  moment  she  looked  at  him.  Her  face  shimmered 
before  his  eyes  as  he  walked  along,  —  pale  and  serious, 
sweet  and  sensitive,  smiling  with  pity  and  tenderness  as 
only  a  spirit  could  smile,  and  pure  as  he  had  never 
dreamed  purity  could  be.  Her  purity  smote  him  like  a 
blow.  It  startled  him.  He  had  known  good  and  bad; 
but  purity,  as  an  attribute  of  existence,  had  never  entered 
his  mind.  And  now,  in  her,  he  conceived  purity  to  be 
the  superlative  of  goodness  and  of  cleanness,  the  sum 
of  which  constituted  eternal  life. 

And  promptly  urged  his  ambition  to  grasp  at  eternal 
life.  He  was  not  fit  to  carry  water  for  her  —  he  knew 
that ;  it  was  a  miracle  of  luck  and  a  fantastic  stroke 
that  had  enabled  him  to  see  her  and  be  with  her  and  talk 
with  her  that  night.  It  was  accidental.  There  was  no 
merit  in  it.  He  did  not  deserve  such  fortune.  His  mood 
was  essentially  religious.  He  was  humble  and  meek, 
filled  with  self-disparagement  and  abasement.  In  such 
frame  of  mind  sinners  come  to  the  penitent  form.  He 
was  convicted  of  sin.  But  as  the  meek  and  lowly  at  the 
penitent  form  catch  splendid  glimpses  of  their  future 
lordly  existence,  so  did  he  catch  similar  glimpses  of  the 
state  he  would  gain  to  by  possessing  her.  But  this 
possession  of  her  was  dim  and  nebulous  and  totally  dif 
ferent  from  possession  as  he  had  known  it.  Ambition 
soared  on  mad  wings,  and  he  saw  himself  climbing  the 
heights  with  her,  sharing  thoughts  with  her,  pleasuring  in 
beautiful  and  noble  things  with  her.  It  was  a  soul-posses 
sion  he  dreamed,  refined  beyond  any  grossness,  a  free 
comradeship  of  spirit  that  he  could  not  put  into  definite 
thought.  He  did  not  think  it.  For  that  matter,  he  did 


MARTIN  EDEN  27 

not  think  at  all.  Sensation  usurped  reason,  and  he  was 
quivering  and  palpitant  with  emotions  he  had  never  known, 
drifting  deliciously  on  a  sea  of  sensibility  where  feeling 
itself  was  exalted  and  spiritualized  and  carried  beyond 
the  summits  of  life. 

He  staggered  along  like  a  drunken  man,  murmuring  fer 
vently  aloud :  "  By  God !  By  God !  " 

A  policeman  on  a  street  corner  eyed  him  suspiciously, 
then  noted  his  sailor  roll. 

"  Where  did  you  get  it  ?  "  the  policeman  demanded. 

Martin  Eden  came  back  to  earth.  His  was  a  fluid  or 
ganism,  swiftly  adjustable,  capable  of  flowing  into  and 
filling  all  sorts  of  nooks  and  crannies.  With  the  police 
man's  hail  he  was  immediately  his  ordinary  self,  grasping 
the  situation  clearly. 

"  It's  a  beaut,  ain't  it  ?  "  he  laughed  back.  "  I  didn't 
know  I  was  talkin'  out  loud." 

"  You'll  be  singing  next,"  was  the  policeman's  diagnosis. 

"  No,  I  won't.  Gimme  a  match  an'  I'll  catch  the  next 
car  home." 

He  lighted  his  cigarette,  said  good  night,  and  went  on. 
"Now  wouldn't  that  rattle  you?"  he  ejaculated  under 
his  breath.  "  That  copper  thought  I  was  drunk."  He 
smiled  to  himself  and  meditated.  "  I  guess  I  was,"  he 
added  ;  "but  I  didn't  think  a  woman's  face'd  do  it." 

He  caught  a  Telegraph  Avenue  car  that  was  going  to 
Berkeley.  It  was  crowded  with  youths  and  young  men 
who  were  singing  songs  and  ever  and  again  barking  out 
college  yells.  He  studied  them  curiously.  They  were 
university  boys.  They  went  to  the  same  university  that 
she  did,  were  in  her  class  socially,  could  know  her,  could 
see  her  every  day  if  they  wanted  to.  He  wondered  that 
they  did  not  want  to,  that  they  had  been  out  having  a 
good  time  instead  of  being  with  her  that  evening,  talking 
with  her,  sitting  around  her  in  a  worshipful  and  adoring 
circle.  His  thoughts  wandered  on.  He  noticed  one 
with  narrow-slitted  eyes  and  a  loose-lipped  mouth.  That 
fellow  was  vicious,  he  decided.  On  shipboard  he  would 
be  a  sneak,  a  whiner,  a  tattler.  He,  Martin  Eden,  was  a 


28  MARTIN  EDEN 

better  man  than  that  fellow.  The  thought  cheered  him. 
It  seemed  to  draw  him  nearer  to  Her.  He  began  com 
paring  himself  with  the  students.  He  grew  conscious  of 
the  muscled  mechanism  of  his  body  and  felt  confident 
that  he  was  physically  their  master.  But  their  heads 
were  filled  with  knowledge  that  enabled  them  to  talk  her 
talk,  —  the  thought  depressed  him.  But  what  was  a  brain 
for  ?  he  demanded  passionately.  What  they  had  done, 
he  could  do.  They  had  been  studying  about  life  from  the 
books  while  he  had  been  busy  living  life.  His  brain  was 
just  as  full  of  knowledge  as  theirs,  though  it  was  a  differ 
ent  kind  of  knowledge.  How  many  of  them  could  tie  a 
lanyard  knot,  or  take  a  wheel  or  a  lookout?  His  life 
spread  out  before  him  in  a  series  of  pictures  of  danger 
and  daring,  hardship  and  toil.  He  remembered  his  fail 
ures  and  scrapes  in  the  process  of  learning.  He  was  that 
much  to  the  good,  anyway.  Later  on  they  would  have 
to  begin  living  life  and  going  through  the  mill  as  he  had 
gone.  Very  well.  While  they  were  busy  with  that,  he 
could  be  learning  the  other  side  of  life  from  the  books. 

As  the  car  crossed  the  zone  of  scattered  dwellings  that 
separated  Oakland  from  Berkeley,  he  kept  a  lookout  for  a 
familiar,  two-story  building  along  the  front  of  which  ran 
the  proud  sign,  HIGGINBOTHAM'S  CASH  STORE. 
Martin  Eden  got  off  at  this  corner.  He  stared  up  for  a 
moment  at  the  sign.  It  carried  a  message  to  him  beyond 
its  mere  wording.  A  personality  of  smallness  and  egotism 
and  petty  underhandedness  seemed  to  emanate  from  the 
letters  themselves.  Bernard  Higginbotham  had  married 
his  sister,  and  he  knew  him  well.  He  let  himself  in  with 
a  latch-key  and  climbed  the  stairs  to  the  second  floor. 
Here  lived  his  brother-in-law.  The  grocery  was  below. 
There  was  a  smell  of  stale  vegetables  in  the  air.  As  he 
groped  his  way  across  the  hall  he  stumbled  over  a  toy- 
cart,  left  there  by  one  of  his  numerous  nephews  and 
nieces,  and  brought  up  against  a  door  with  a  resounding 
bang.  "  The  pincher,"  was  his  thought ;  "too  miserly  to 
burn  two  cents'  worth  of  gas  and  save  his  boarders'  necks." 

He  fumbled  for  the  knob  and  entered  a  lighted  room, 


MARTIN  EDEN  29 

where  sat  his  sister  and  Bernard  Higginbotham.  She 
was  patching  a  pair  of  his  trousers,  while  his  lean  body 
was  distributed  over  two  chairs,  his  feet  dangling  in 
dilapidated  carpet-slippers  over  the  edge  of  the  second 
chair.  He  glanced  across  the  top  of  the  paper  he  was 
reading,  showing  a  pair  of  dark,  insincere,  sharp-staring 
eyes.  Martin  Eden  never  looked  at  him  without  experi 
encing  a  sense  of  repulsion.  What  his  sister  had  seen  in 
the  man  was  beyond  him.  The  other  affected  him  as  so 
much  vermin,  and  always  aroused  in  him  an  impulse  to 
crush  him  under  his  foot.  "  Some  day  I'll  beat  the  face  off 
of  him,"  was  the  way  he  often  consoled  himself  for  endur 
ing  the  man's  existence.  The  eyes,  weasel-like  and  cruel, 
were  looking  at  him  complainingly. 

"  Well,"  Martin  demanded.     "  Out  with  it." 

"  I  had  that  door  painted  only  last  week,"  Mr.  Higgin 
botham  half  whined,  half  bullied;  "and  you  know  what 
union  wages  are.  You  should  be  more  careful." 

Martin  had  intended  to  reply,  but  he  was  struck  by  the 
hopelessness  of  it.  He  gazed  across  the  monstrous  sordid- 
ness  of  soul  to  a  chromo  on  the  wall.  It  surprised  him. 
He  had  always  liked  it,  but  it  seemed  that  now  he  was 
seeing  it  for  the  first  time.  It  was  cheap,  that  was  what 
it  was,  like  everything  else  in  this  house.  His  mind  went 
back  to  the  house  he  had  just  left,  and  he  saw,  first,  the 
paintings,  and  next,  Her,  looking  at  him  with  melting 
sweetness  as  she  shook  his  hand  at  leaving.  He  forgot 
where  he  was  and  Bernard  Higginbotham's  existence,  till 
that  gentleman  demanded  :  — 

"  Seen  a  ghost  ?  " 

Martin  came  back  and  looked  at  the  beady  eyes,  sneer 
ing,  truculent,  cowardly,  and  there  leaped  into  his  vision, 
as  on  a  screen,  the  same  eyes  when  their  owner  was  mak 
ing  a  sale  in  the  store  below  —  subservient  eyes,  smug,  and 
oily,  and  flattering. 

"  Yes,"  Martin  answered.  "  I  seen  a  ghost.  Good  night. 
Good  night,  Gertrude." 

He  started  to  leave  the  room,  tripping  over  a  loose  seam 
in  the  slatternly  carpet. 


30  MARTIN  EDEN 

"Don't  bang  the  door,"  Mr.  Higginbotham  cautioned 
him. 

He  felt  the  blood  crawl  in  his  veins,  but  controlled  him 
self  and  closed  the  door  softly  behind  him. 

Mr.  Higginbotham  looked  at  his  wife  exultantly. 

"  He's  ben  drinkin',"  he  proclaimed  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 
"  I  told  you  he  would." 

She  nodded  her  head  resignedly. 

"His  eyes  was  pretty  shiny,"  she  confessed;  "and  he 
didn't  have  no  collar,  though  he  went  away  with  one.  But 
mebbe  he  didn't  have  more'n  a  couple  of  glasses." 

"  He  couldn't  stand  up  straight,"  asserted  her  husband. 
"  I  watched  him.  He  couldn't  walk  across  the  floor  with 
out  stumblin'.  You  heard  'm  yourself  almost  fall  down  in 
the  hall." 

"  I  think  it  was  over  Alice's  cart,"  she  said.  "  He 
couldn't  see  it  in  the  dark." 

Mr.  Higginbotham's  voice  and  wrath  began  to  rise.  All 
day  he  effaced  himself  in  the  store,  reserving  for  the  even 
ing,  with  his  family,  the  privilege  of  being  himself. 

"  I  tell  you  that  precious  brother  of  yours  was  drunk." 

His  voice  was  cold,  sharp,  and  final,  his  lips  stamping 
the  enunciation  of  each  word  like  the  die  of  a  machine. 
His  wife  sighed  and  remained  silent.  She  was  a  large, 
stout  woman,  always  dressed  slatternly  and  always  tired 
from  the  burdens  of  her  flesh,  her  work,  and  her  husband. 

44  He's  got  it  in  him,  I  tell  you,  from  his  father,"  Mr. 
Higginbotham  went  on  accusingly.  "  An'  he'll  croak  in 
the  gutter  the  same  way.  You  know  that." 

She  nodded,  sighed,  and  went  on  stitching.  They  were 
agreed  that  Martin  had  come  home  drunk.  They  did  not 
have  it  in  their  souls  to  know  beauty,  or  they  would  have 
known  that  those  shining  eyes  and  that  glowing  face  be 
tokened  youth's  first  vision  of  love. 

41  Settin'  a  fine  example  to  the  children,"  Mr.  Higgin 
botham  snorted,  suddenly,  in  the  silence  for  which  his  wife 
was  responsible  and  which  he  resented.  Sometimes  he  al 
most  wished  she  would  oppose  him  more.  "  If  he  does  it 
again,  he's  got  to  get  out.  Understand  !  I  won't  put  up 


MARTIN  EDEN  31 

with  his  shinanigan  —  debotchin'  innocent  children  with 
his  boozing."  Mr.  Higginbotham  liked  the  word,  which 
was  a  new  one  in  his  vocabulary,  recently  gleaned  from  a 
newspaper  column.  "That's  what  it  is,  debotchin'  — 
there  ain't  no  other  name  for  it." 

Still  his  wife  sighed,  shook  her  head  sorrowfully,  and 
stitched  on.  Mr.  Higginbotham  resumed  the  newspaper. 

"  Has  he  paid  last  week's  board?  "  he  shot  across  the 
top  of  the  newspaper. 

She  nodded,  then  added,  "  He  still  has  some  money." 

"  When  is  he  goin'  to  sea  again  ?  " 

"  When  his  pay-day's  spent,  I  guess,"  she  answered. 
"  He  was  over  to  San  Francisco  yesterday  looking  for  a 
ship.  But  he's  got  money,  yet,  an'  he's  particular  about 
the  kind  of  ship  he  signs  for." 

"  It's  not  for  a  deck-swab  like  him  to  put  on  airs,"  Mr. 
Higginbotham  snorted.  "  Particular !  Him !  " 

"  He  said  something  about  a  schooner  that's  gettin* 
ready  to  go  oft  to  some  outlandish  place  to  look  for  buried 
treasure,  that  he'd  sail  on  her  if  his  money  held  out." 

**  If  he  only  wanted  to  steady  down,  I'd  give  him  a  job 
drivin'  the  wagon,"  her  husband  said,  but  with  no  trace  of 
benevolence  in  his  voice.  "  Tom's  quit." 

His  wife  looked  alarm  and  interrogation. 

"Quit  to-night.  Is  goin'  to  work  for  Carruthers. 
They  paid  'm  more'n  I  could  afford." 

"  I  told  you  you'd  lose  'm,"  she  cried  out.  "  He  was 
worth  more'n  you  was  giving  him." 

"  Now  look  here,  old  woman,"  Higginbotham  bullied, 
"  for  the  thousandth  time  I've  told  you  to  keep  your  nose 
out  of  the  business.  I  won't  tell  you  again." 

"  I  don't  care,"  she  sniffled.    "  Tom  was  a  good  boy." 

Her  husband  glared  at  her.  This  was  unqualified 
defiance. 

"  If  that  brother  of  yours  was  worth  his  salt,  he  could 
take  the  wagon,"  he  snorted. 

"He  pays  his  board,  just  the  same,"  was  the  retort. 
"An'  he's  my  brother,  an'  so  long  as  he  don't  owe  you 
money  you've  got  no  rijsht  to  be  jumping  on  him  all  the 


32  MARTIN  EDEN 

time.  I've  got  some  feelings,  if  I  have  been  married  to 
you  for  seven  years." 

"  Did  you  tell  'm  you'd  charge  him  for  gas  if  he  goes  on 
readin'  in  bed  ?  "  he  demanded. 

Mrs.  Higginbotham  made  no  reply.  Her  revolt  faded 
away,  her  spirit  wilting  down  into  her  tired  flesh.  Her 
husband  was  triumphant.  He  had  her.  His  eyes  snapped 
vindictively,  while  his  ears  joyed  in  the  sniffles  she  emitted. 
He  extracted  great  happiness  from  squelching  her,  and 
she  squelched  easily  these  days,  though  it  had  been  dif 
ferent  in  the  first  years  of  their  married  life,  before  the 
brood  of  children  and  his  incessant  nagging  had  sapped 
her  energy. 

"  Well,  you  tell  'm  to-morrow,  that's  all,"  he  said.  "  An' 
I  just  want  to  tell  you,  before  I  forget  it,  that  you'd  better 
send  for  Marian  to-morrow  to  take  care  of  the  children. 
With  Tom  quit,  I'll  have  to  be  out  on  the  wagon,  an'  you 
can  make  up  your  mind  to  it  to  be  down  below  waitin'  on 
the  counter." 

"  But  to-morrow's  wash  day,"  she  objected  weakly. 

"  Get  up  early,  then,  an'  do  it  first.  I  won't  start  out 
till  ten  o'clock." 

He  crinkled  the  paper  viciously  and  resumed  his  reading. 


CHAPTER   IV 

MARTIN  EDEN,  with  blood  still  crawling  from  contact 
with  his  brother-in-law,  felt  his  way  along  the  unlighted 
back  hall  and  entered  his  room,  a  tiny  cubbyhole  with 
space  for  a  bed,  a  wash-stand,  and  one  chair.  Mr.  Hig- 
ginbotham  was  too  thrifty  to  keep  a  servant  when  his 
wife  could  do  the  work.  Besides,  the  servant's  room  en 
abled  them  to  take  in  two  boarders  instead  of  one.  Mar 
tin  placed  the  Swinburne  and  Browning  on  the  chair, 
took  off  his  coat,  and  sat  down  on  the  bed.  A  screeching 
of  asthmatic  springs  greeted  the  weight  of  his  body,  but 
he  did  not  notice  them.  He  started  to  take  off  his  shoes, 
but  fell  to  staring  at  the  white  plaster  wall  opposite  him, 
broken  by  long  streaks  of  dirty  brown  where  rain  had 
leaked  through  the  roof.  On  this  befouled  background 
visions  began  to  flow  and  burn.  He  forgot  his  shoes  and 
stared  long,  till  his  lips  began  to  move  and  he  murmured, 
"Ruth." 

"Ruth."  He  had  not  thought  a  simple  sound  could 
be  so  beautiful.  It  delighted  his  ear,  and  he  grew  in 
toxicated  with  the  repetition  of  it.  "  Ruth."  It  was  a 
talisman,  a  magic  word  to  conjure  with.  Each  time  he 
murmured  it,  her  face  shimmered  before  him,  suffusing 
the  foul  wall  with  a  golden  radiance.  This  radiance  did 
not  stop  at  the  wall.  It  extended  on  into  infinity,  and 
through  its  golden  depths  his  soul  went  questing  after 
hers.  The  best  that  was  in  him  was  pouring  out  in 
splendid  flood.  The  very  thought  of  her  ennobled  and 
purified  him,  made  him  better,  and  made  him  want  to  be 
better.  This  was  new  to  him.  He  had  never  known 
women  who  had  made  him  better.  They  had  always  had 
ik&  counter  effect  of  making  him  beastly.  He  did  not 
»  33 


34  MARTIN  EDEN 

know  that  many  of  them  had  done  their  best,  bad  as  it 
was.  Never  having  been  conscious  of  himself,  he  did  not 
know  that  he  had  that  in  his  being  that  drew  love  from 
women  and  which  had  been  the  cause  of  their  reaching 
out  for  his  youth.  Though  they  had  often  bothered  him, 
he  had  never  bothered  about  them;  and  he  would  never 
have  dreamed  that  there  were  women  who  had  been  better 
because  of  him.  Always  in  sublime  carelessness  had  he 
lived,  till  now,  and  now  it  seemed  to  him  that  they  had  al 
ways  reached  out  and  dragged  at  him  with  vile  hands. 
This  was  not  just  to  them,  nor  to  himself.  But  he,  who 
for  the  first  time  was  becoming  conscious  of  himself,  was 
in  no  condition  to  judge,  and  he  burned  with  shame  as 
he  stared  at  the  vision  of  his  infamy. 

He  got  up  abruptly  and  tried  to  see  himself  in  the 
dirty  looking-glass  over  the  wash-stand.  He  passed  a 
towel  over  it  and  looked  again,  long  and  carefully.  It 
was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  really  seen  himself.  His 
eyes  were  made  for  seeing,  but  up  to  that  moment  they 
had  been  filled  with  the  ever  changing  panorama  of  the 
world,  at  which  he  had  been  too  busy  gazing,  ever  to  gaze 
at  himself.  He  saw  the  head  and  face  of  a  young  fellow  of 
twenty,  but,  being  unused  to  such  appraisement,  he  did  not 
know  how  to  value  it.  Above  a  square-domed  forehead  he 
saw  a  mop  of  brown  hair,  nut-brown,  with  a  wave  to  it 
and  hints  of  curls  that  were  a  delight  to  any  woman,  mak 
ing  hands  tingle  to  stroke  it  and  fingers  tingle  to  pass 
caresses  through  it.  But  he  passed  it  by  as  without 
merit,  in  Her  eyes,  and  dwelt  long  and  thoughtfully  on 
the  high,  square  forehead,  —  striving  to  penetrate  it  and 
learn  the  quality  of  its  content.  What  kind  of  a  brain 
lay  behind  there  ?  was  his  insistent  interrogation.  What 
was  it  capable  of  ?  How  far  would  it  take  him  ?  Would 
it  take  him  to  her  ? 

He  wondered  if  there  was  soul  in  those  steel-gray  eyes 
that  were  often  quite  blue  of  color  and  that  were  strong 
with  the  briny  airs  of  the  sun -washed  deep.  He  won 
dered,  also,  how  his  eyes  looked  to  her.  He  tried  to  im 
agine  himself  she,  gazing  into  those  eyes  of  his,  but  failed 


MARTIN  EDEN  35 

in  the  jugglery.  He  could  successfully  put  himself  inside 
other  men's  minds,  but  they  had  to  IDG  men  whose  ways 
of  life  he  knew.  He  did  not  know  her  way  of  life.  She 
was  wonder  and  mystery,  and  how  could  he  guess  one 
thought  of  hers  ?  Well,  they  were  honest  eyes,  he  con 
cluded,  and  in  them  was  neither  smallness  nor  meanness. 
The  brown  sunburn  of  his  face  surprised  him.  He  had 
not  dreamed  he  was  so  black.  He  rolled  up  his  shirt 
sleeve  and  compared  the  white  underside  of  the  arm 
with  his  face.  Yes,  he  was  a  white  man,  after  all.  But 
the  arms  were  sunburned,  too.  He  twisted  his  arm, 
rolled  the  biceps  over  with  his  other  hand,  and  gazed 
underneath  where  he  was  least  touched  by  the  sun.  It 
was  very  white.  He  laughed  at  his  bronzed  face  in 
the  glass  at  the  thought  that  it  was  once  as  white  as 
the  underside  of  his  arm  ;  nor  did  he  dream  that  in  the 
world  there  were  few  pale  spirits  of  women  who  could 
boast  fairer  or  smoother  skins  than  he  —  fairer  than 
where  he  had  escaped  the  ravages  of  the  sun. 

His  might  have  been  a  cherub's  mouth,  had  not  the 
full,  sensuous  lips  a  trick,  under  stress,  of  drawing  firmly 
across  the  teeth.  At  times,  so  tightly  did  they  draw,  the 
mouth  became  stern  and  harsh,  even  ascetic.  They  were 
the  lips  of  a  fighter  and  of  a  lover.  They  could  taste 
the  sweetness  of  life  with  relish,  and  they  could  put  the 
sweetness  aside  and  command  life.  The  chin  and  jaw, 
strong  and  just  hinting  of  square  aggressiveness,  helped 
the  lips  to  command  life.  Strength  balanced  sensuous- 
ness  and  had  upon  it  a  tonic  effect,  compelling  him  to 
love  beauty  that  was  healthy  and  making  him  vibrate  to 
sensations  that  were  wholesome.  And  between  the  lips 
were  teeth  that  had  never  known  nor  needed  the  dentist's 
care.  They  were  white  and  strong  and  regular,  he  de 
cided,  as  he  looked  at  them.  But  as  he  looked,  he  began 
to  be  troubled.  Somewhere,  stored  away  in  the  recesses 
of  his  mind  and  vaguely  remembered,  was  the  impression 
that  there  were  people  who  washed  their  teeth  every  day. 
They  were  the  people  from  up  above  —  people  in  her  class. 
She  must  wash  her  teeth  every  day,  too.  What  would  she 


36  MARTIN  EDEN 

think  if  she  learned  that  he  had  never  washed  his  teeth  in 
all  the  days  of  his  life  ?  He  resolved  to  get  a  tooth-brush 
and  form  the  habit.  He  would  begin  at  once,  to-morrow. 
It  was  not  by  mere  achievement  that  he  could  hope  to 
win  to  her.  He  must  make  a  personal  reform  in  all 
things,  even  to  tooth-washing  and  neck-gear,  though  a 
starched  collar  affected  him  as  a  renunciation  of  freedom. 
He  held  up  his  hand,  rubbing  the  ball  of  the  thumb  over 
the  calloused  palm  and  gazing  at  the  dirt  that  was  ingrained 
in  the  flesh  itself  and  which  no  brush  could  scrub  away. 
How  different  was  her  palm!  He  thrilled  deliciously  at 
the  remembrance.  Like  a  rose-petal,  he  thought ;  cool  and 
soft  as  a  snowflake.  He  had  never  thought  that  a  mere 
woman's  hand  could  be  so  sweetly  soft.  He  caught  him 
self  imagining  the  wonder  of  a  caress  from  such  a  hand, 
and  flushed  guiltily.  It  was  too  gross  a  thought  for  her. 
In  ways  it  seemed  to  impugn  her  high  spirituality.  She 
was  a  pale,  slender  spirit,  exalted  far  beyond  the  flesh ;  but 
nevertheless  the  softness  of  her  palm  persisted  in  his 
thoughts.  He  was  used  to  the  harsh  callousness  of  fac 
tory  girls  and  working  women.  Well  he  knew  why  their 
hands  were  rough;  but  this  hand  of  hers  ...  It  was 
soft  because  she  had  never  used  it  to  work  with.  The 
gulf  yawned  between  her  and  him  at  the  awesome  thought 
of  a  person  who  did  not  have  to  work  for  a  living.  He 
suddenly  saw  the  aristocracy  of  the  people  who  did  not 
labor.  It  towered  before  him  on  the  wall,  a  figure  in 
brass,  arrogant  and  powerful.  He  had  worked  himself  ; 
his  first  memories  seemed  connected  with  work,  and  all 
his  family  had  worked.  There  was  Gertrude.  When  her 
hands  were  not  hard  from  the  endless  housework,  they  were 
swollen  and  red  like  boiled  beef,  what  of  the  washing. 
And  there  was  his  sister  Marian.  She  had  worked  in  the 
cannery  the  preceding  summer,  and  her  slim,  pretty  hands 
were  all  scarred  with  the  tomato-knives.  Besides,  the 
tips  of  two  of  her  fingers  had  been  left  in  the  cutting  ma 
chine  at  the  paper-box  factory  the  preceding  winter.  He 
remembered  the  hard  palms  of  his  mother  as  she  lay  in 
her  coffin.  And  his  father  had  worked  to  the  last  fading 


MARTIN  EDEN  37 

gasp ;  the  horned  growth  on  his  hands  must  have  been 
half  an  inch  thick  when  he  died.  But  Her  hands  were 
soft,  and  her  mother's  hands,  and  her  brothers'.  This 
last  came  to  him  as  a  surprise ;  it  was  tremendously  in 
dicative  of  the  highness  of  their  caste,  of  the  enormous 
distance  that  stretched  between  her  and  him. 

He  sat  back  on  the  bed  with  a  bitter  laugh,  and  finished 
taking  off  his  shoes.  He  was  a  fool ;  he  had  been  made 
drunken  by  a  woman's  face  and  by  a  woman's  soft,  white 
hands.  And  then,  suddenly,  before  his  eyes,  on  the  foul 
plaster-wall  appeared  a  vision.  He  stood  in  front  of  a 
gloomy  tenement  house.  It  was  night-time,  in  the  East 
End  of  London,  and  before  him  stood  Margey,  a  little  fac 
tory  girl  of  fifteen.  He  had  seen  her  home  after  the  bean 
feast.  She  lived  in  that  gloomy  tenement,  a  place  not  fit 
for  swine.  His  hand  was  going  out  to  hers  as  he  said 
good  night.  She  had  put  her  lips  up  to  be  kissed,  but  he 
wasn't  going  to  kiss  her.  Somehow  he  was  afraid  of  her. 
And  then  her  hand  closed  on  his  and  pressed  feverishly. 
He  felt  her  callouses  grind  and  grate  on  his,  and  a  great 
wave  of  pity  welled  over  him.  He  saw  her  yearning,  hun 
gry  eyes,  and  her  ill-fed  female  form  which  had  been  rushed 
from  childhood  into  a  frightened  and  ferocious  maturity ; 
then  he  put  his  arms  about  her  in  large  tolerance  and 
stooped  and  kissed  her  on  the  lips.  Her  glad  little  cry 
rang  in  his  ears,  and  he  felt  her  clinging  to  him  like  a  cat. 
Poor  little  starveling  !  He  continued  to  stare  at  the  vision 
of  what  had  happened  in  the  long  ago.  His  flesh  was 
crawling  as  it  had  crawled  that  night  when  she  clung  to 
him,  and  his  heart  was  warm  with  pity.  It  was  a  gray 
scene,  greasy  gray,  and  the  rain  drizzled  greasily  on  the 
pavement  stones.  And  then  a  radiant  glory  shone  on  the 
wall,  and  up  through  the  other  vision,  displacing  it,  glim 
mered  Her  pale  face  under  its  crown  of  golden  hair,  re 
mote  and  inaccessible  as  a  star. 

He  took  the  Browning  and  the  Swinburne  from  the  chair 
and  kissed  them.  Just  the  same,  she  told  me  to  call  again, 
he  thought.  He  took  another  look  at  himself  in  the  glass, 
and  said  aloud,  with  great  solemnity :  — 


38  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  Martin  Eden,  the  first  thing  to-morrow  you  go  to  the 
free  library  an'  read  up  on  etiquette.  Understand ! " 

He  turned  off  the  gas,  and  the  springs  shrieked  under 
his  body. 

"  But  you've  got  to  quit  cussin',  Martin,  old  boy  ;  you've 
got  to  quit  cussin',"  he  said  aloud. 

Then  he  dozed  off  to  sleep  and  to  dream  dreams  that 
for  madness  and  audacity  rivalled  those  of  poppy-eaters. 


CHAPTER  V 

HE  awoke  next  morning  from  rosy  scenes  of  dream  to  a 
steamy  atmosphere  that  smelled  of  soapsuds  and  dirty 
clothes,  and  that  was  vibrant  with  the  jar  and  jangle  of 
tormented  life.  As  he  came  out  of  his  room  he  heard  the 
slosh  of  water,  a  sharp  exclamation,  and  a  resounding 
smack  as  his  sister  visited  her  irritation  upon  one  of  her 
numerous  progeny.  The  squall  of  the  child  went  through 
him  like  a  knife.  He  was  aware  that  the  whole  thing,  the 
very  air  he  breathed,  was  repulsive  and  mean.  How  dif 
ferent,  he  thought,  from  the  atmosphere  of  beauty  and 
repose  of  the  house  wherein  Ruth  dwelt.  There  it  was  all 
spiritual.  Here  it  was  all  material,  and  meanly  material. 

"  Come  here,  Alfred,"  he  called  to  the  crying  child,  at 
the  same  time  thrusting  his  hand  into  his  trousers  pocket, 
where  he  carried  his  money  loose  in  the  same  large  way 
that  he  lived  life  in  general.  He  put  a  quarter  in  the 
youngster's  hand  and  held  him  in  his  arms  a  moment, 
soothing  his  sobs.  "  Now  run  along  and  get  some  candy, 
and  don't  forget  to  give  some  to  your  brothers  and  sisters. 
Be  sure  and  get  the  kind  that  lasts  longest." 

His  sister  lifted  a  flushed  face  from  the  wash-tub  and 
looked  at  him. 

"A  nickel'd  ha'  ben  enough,"  she  said.  "It's  just  like 
you,  no  idea  of  the  value  of  money.  The  child'll  eat  him 
self  sick." 

"  That's  all  right,  sis,"  he  answered  jovially.  "  My 
money'll  take  care  of  itself.  If  you  weren't  so  busy,  I'd 
kiss  you  good  morning." 

He  wanted  to  be  affectionate  to  this  sister,  who  was 
good,  and  who,  in  her  way,  he  knew,  loved  him.  But, 
somehow,  she  grew  less  herself  as  the  years  went  by, 

39 


40  MARTIN  EDEN 

more  and  more  baffling.  It  was  the  hard  work,  the  many 
children,  and  the  nagging  of  her  husband,  he  decided,  that 
had  changed  her.  It  came  to  him,  in  a  flash  of  fancy,  that 
her  nature  seemed  taking  on  the  attributes  of  stale  vege 
tables,  smelly  soapsuds,  and  of  the  greasy  dimes,  nickels, 
and  quarters  she  took  in  over  the  counter  of  the  store. 

"  Go  along  an'  get  your  breakfast,"  she  said  roughly, 
though  secretly  pleased.  Of  all  her  wandering  brood  of 
brothers  he  had  always  been  her  favorite.  "  I  declare  I 
will  kiss  you,"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  stir  at  her  heart. 

With  thumb  and  forefinger  she  swept  the  dripping  suds 
first  from  one  arm  and  then  from  the  other.  He  put  his 
arms  round  her  massive  waist  and  kissed  her  wet,  steamy  lips. 
The  tears  welled  into  her  eyes  —  not  so  much  from 
strength  of  feeling  as  from  the  weakness  of  chronic  over 
work.  She  shoved  him  away  from  her,  but  not  before  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  her  moist  eyes. 

"  You'll  find  breakfast  in  the  oven,"  she  said  hurriedly. 
"  Jim  ought  to  be  up  now.  I  had  to  get  up  early  for  the 
washing.  Now  get  along  with  you  and  get  out  of  the 
house  early.  It  won't  be  nice  to-day,  what  of  Tom  quit- 
tin'  an'  nobody  but  Bernard  to  drive  the  wagon." 

Martin  went  into  the  kitchen  with  a  sinking  heart,  the 
image  of  her  red  face  and  slatternly  form  eating  its  way 
like  acid  into  his  brain.  She  might  love  him  if  she  only 
had  some  time,  he  concluded.  But  she  was  worked  to  death. 
Bernard  Higginbotham  was  a  brute  to  work  her  so  hard. 
But  he  could  not  help  but  feel,  on  the  other  hand,  that 
there  had  not  been  anything  beautiful  in  that  kiss.  It  was 
true,  it  was  an  unusual  kiss.  For  years  she  had  kissed 
him  only  when  he  returned  from  voyages  or  departed  on 
voyages.  But  this  kiss  had  tasted  of  soapsuds,  and  the 
lips,  he  had  noticed,  were  flabby.  There  had  been  no 
quick,  vigorous  lip-pressure  such  as  should  accompany  any 
kiss.  Hers  was  the  kiss  of  a  tired  woman  who  had  been 
tired  so  long  that  she  had  forgotten  how  to  kiss.  He  re 
membered  her  as  a  girl,  before  hAr  marriage,  when  she 
would  dance  with  the  best,  all  night,  after  a  hard  day's 
work  at  the  laundry,  and  think  nothing  of  leaving  the 


MARTIN  EDEN  41 

dance  to  go  to  another  day's  hard  work,  And  then  he 
thought  of  Ruth  and  the  cool  sweetness  that  must  re 
side  in  her  lips  as  it  resided  in  all  about  her.  Her  kiss 
would  be  like  her  hand-shake  or  the  way  she  looked  at  one, 
firm  and  frank.  In  imagination  he  dared  to  think  of  her 
lips  on  his,  and  so  vividly  did  he  imagine  that  he  went 
dizzy  at  the  thought  and  seemed  to  rift  through  clouds  of 
rose-petals,  filling  his  brain  with  their  perfume. 

In  the  kitchen  he  found  Jim,  the  other  boarder,  eating 
mush  very  languidly,  with  a  sick,  far-away  look  in  his 
eyes.  Jim  was  a  plumber's  apprentice  whose  weak  chin 
and  hedonistic  temperament,  coupled  with  a  certain  ner 
vous  stupidity,  promised  to  take  him  nowhere  in  the  race 
for  bread  and  butter. 

"  Why  don't  you  eat  ?  "  he  demanded,  as  Martin  dipped 
dolefully  into  the  cold,  half-cooked  oatmeal  mush.  "  Was 
you  drunk  again  last  night  ?  " 

Martin  shook  his  head.  He  was  oppressed  by  the  utter 
squalidness  of  it  all.  Ruth  Morse  seemed  farther  removed 
than  ever. 

"  I  was,"  Jim  went  on  with  a  boastful,  nervous  giggle. 
"  I  was  loaded  right  to  the  neck.  Oh,  she  was  a  daisy. 
Billy  brought  me  home." 

Martin  nodded  that  he  heard,  —  it  was  a  habit  of  nature 
with  him  to  pay  heed  to  whoever  talked  to  him,  —  and 
poured  a  cup  of  lukewarm  coffee. 

"  Goin'  to  the  Lotus  Club  dance  to-night  ?  "  Jim  de 
manded.  "  They're  goin'  to  have  beer,  an'  if  that  Tem- 
escal  bunch  comes,  there'll  be  a  rough-house.  I  don't 
care,  though.  I'm  takin'  my  lady  friend  just  the  same. 
Gripes,  but  I've  got  a  taste  in  my  mouth!  " 

He  made  a  wry  face  and  attempted  to  wash  the  taste 
away  with  coffee. 

"D'ye  know  Julia?" 

Martin  shook  his  head. 

"  She's  my  lady  friend,"  Jim  explained,  "  and  she's  a 
peach.  I'd  introduce  you  to  her,  only  you'd  win  her. 
I  don't  see  what  the  girls  see  in  you,  honest  I  don't;  but 
the  way  you  win  them  away  from  the  fellers  is  sickenin'." 


42  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  I  never  got  any  away  from  you,"  Martin  answered  unin- 
terestedly.  The  breakfast  had  to  be  got  through  somehow. 

"  Yes,  you  did,  too,"  the  other  asserted  warmly.  "  There 
was  Maggie." 

"Never  had  anything  to  do  with  her.  Never  danced 
with  her  except  that  one  night." 

"  Yes,  an'  that's  just  what  did  it,"  Jim  cried  out. 
"  You  just  danced  with  her  an'  looked  at  her,  an'  it  was 
all  off.  Of  course  you  didn't  mean  nothin'  by  it,  but 
it  settled  me  for  keeps.  Wouldn't  look  at  me  again. 
Always  askin'  about  you.  She'd  have  made  fast  dates 
enough  with  you  if  you'd  wanted  to." 

"But  I  didn't  want  to." 

"  Wasn't  necessary.  I  was  left  at  the  pole. "  Jim  looked 
at  him  admiringly.  "  How  d'ye  do  it,  anyway,  Mart  ?  " 

"  By  not  carin'  about  'em,"  was  the  answer. 

"  You  mean  makin'  b'lieve  you  don't  care  about  them  ?  " 
Jim  queried  eagerly. 

Martin  considered  for  a  moment,  then  answered,  "  Per 
haps  that  will  do,  but  with  me  I  guess  it's  different.  I 
never  have  cared  —  much.  If  you  can  put  it  on,  it's  all 
right,  most  likely." 

"  You  should  'a'  ben  up  at  Riley's  barn  last  night,"  Jim 
announced  inconsequently.  "  A  lot  of  the  fellers  put 
on  the  gloves.  There  was  a  peach  from  West  Oakland. 
They  called  'm  'The  Rat.'  Slick  as -silk.  No  one  could 
touch 'm.  We  was  all  wishin'  you  was  there.  Where 
was  you  anyway  ?  " 

"  Down  in  Oakland,"  Martin,  replied. 

"  To  the  show  ?  " 

Martin  shoved  his  plate  away  and  got  up. 

"Comin'  to  the  dance  to-night?"  the  other  called 
after  him. 

*'  No,  I  think  not,"  he  answered. 

He  went  downstairs  and  out  into  the  street,  breathing 
great  breaths  of  air.  He  had  been  suffocating  in  that 
atmosphere,  while  the  apprentice's  chatter  had  driven  him 
frantic.  There  had  been  times  when  it  was  all  he 
could  do  to  refrain  from  reaching  over  and  mop- 


MARTIN  EDEN  43 

ping  Jim's  face  in  the  mush-plate.  The  more  he  had 
chattered,  the  more  remote  had  Ruth  seemed  to  him. 
How  could  he,  herding  with  such  cattle,  ever  become 
worthy  of  her?  He  was  appalled  at  the  problem  con 
fronting  him,  weighted  down  by  the  incubus  of  his  work 
ing-class  station.  Everything  reached  out  to  hold  him 
down  —  his  sister,  his  sister's  house  and  family,  Jim  the 
apprentice,  everybody  he  knew,  every  tie  of  life.  Exist 
ence  did  not  taste  good  in  his  mouth.  Up  to  then  he  had 
accepted  existence,  as  he  had  lived  it  with  all  about  him, 
as  a  good  thing.  He  had  never  questioned  it,  except 
when  he  read  books  ;  but  then,  they  were  only  books, 
fairy  stories  of  a  fairer  and  impossible  world.  But  now 
he  had  seen  that  world,  possible  and  real,  with  a  flower 
of  a  woman  called  Ruth  in  the  midmost  centre  of  it ;  and 
thenceforth  he  must  know  bitter  tastes,  and  longings  sharp 
as  pain,  and  hopelessness  that  tantalized  because  it  fed  on 
hope. 

He  had  debated  between  the  Berkeley  Free  Library  and 
the  Oakland  Free  Library,  and  decided  upon  the  latter 
because  Ruth  lived  in  Oakland.  Who  could  tell?  —  a 
library  was  a  most  likely  place  for  her,  and  he  might  see 
her  there.  He  did  not  know  the  way  of  libraries,  and  he 
wandered  through  endless  rows  of  fiction,  till  the  delicate- 
featured  French-looking  girl  who  seemed  in  charge,  told 
him  that  the  reference  department  was  upstairs.  He  did 
not  know  enough  to  ask  the  man  at  the  desk,  and  began 
his  adventures  in  the  philosophy  alcove.  He  had  heard 
of  book  philosophy,  but  had  not  imagined  there  had 
been  so  much  written  about  it.  The  high,  bulging  shelves 
of  heavy  tomes  humbled  him  and  at  the  same  time  stimu 
lated  him.  Here  was  work  for  the  vigor  of  his  brain. 
He  found  books  on  trigonometry  in  the  mathematics  sec 
tion,  and  ran  the  pages,  and  stared  at  the  meaningless 
formulas  and  figures.  He  could  read  English,  but  he  saw 
there  an  alien  speech.  Norman  and  Arthur  knew  that 
speech.  He  had  heard  them  talking  it.  And  they  were 
her  brothers.  He  left  the  alcove  in  despair.  From  every 
side  the  books  seemed  to  press  upon  him  and  crush  him. 


44  MARTIN  EDEN 

He  had  never  dreamed  that  the  fund  of  human  knowledge 
bulked  so  big.  He  was  frightened.  How  could  his  brain 
ever  master  it  all  ?  Later,  he  remembered  that  there 
were  other  men,  many  men,  who  had  mastered  it ;  and  he 
breathed  a  great  oath,  passionately,  under  his  breath, 
swearing  that  his  brain  could  do  what  theirs  had  done. 

And  so  he  wandered  on,  alternating  between  depression 
and  elation  as  he  stared  at  the  shelves  packed  with  wis 
dom.  In  one  miscellaneous  section  he  came  upon  a  "Nor- 
rie's  Epitome."  He  turned  the  pages  reverently.  In  a 
way,  it  spoke  a  kindred  speech.  Both  he  and  it  were  of 
the  sea.  Then  he  found  a  "Bowditch"  and  books  by 
Lecky  and  Marshall.  There  it  was;  he  would  teach  him 
self  navigation.  He  would  quit  drinking,  work  up,  and 
become  a  captain.  Ruth  seemed  very  near  to  him  in  that 
moment.  As  a  captain,  he  could  marry  her  (if  she  would 
have  him).  And  if  she  wouldn't,  well — he  would  live  a 
good  life  among  men,  because  of  Her,  and  he  would  quit 
drinking  anyway.  Then  he  remembered  the  underwriters 
and  the  owners,  the  two  masters  a  captain  must  serve, 
either  of  which  could  and  would  break  him  and  whose  in 
terests  were  diametrically  opposed.  He  cast  his  eyes 
about  the  room  and  closed  the  lids  down  on  a  vision  of 
ten  thousand  books.  No  ;  no  more  of  the  sea  for  him. 
There  was  power  in  all  that  wealth  of  books,  and  if  he 
would  do  great  things,  he  must  do  them  on  the  land.  Be 
sides,  captains  were  not  allowed  to  take  their  wives  to 
sea  with  them. 

Noon  came,  and  afternoon.  He  forgot  to  eat,  and 
sought  on  for  the  books  on  etiquette ;  for,  in  addition  to 
career,  his  mind  was  vexed  by  a  simple  and  very  concrete 
problem :  When  you  meet  a  young  lady  and  she  asks  you  to 
call,  how  soon  can  you  call  f  was  the  way  he  worded  it  to 
himself.  But  when  he  found  the  right  shelf,  he  sought 
vainly  for  the  answer.  He  was  appalled  at  the  vast  edifice 
of  etiquette,  and  lost  himself  in  the  mazes  of  visiting-card 
conduct  between  persons  in  polite  society.  He  abandoned 
his  search.  He  had  not  found  what  he  wanted,  though 
he  had  found  that  it  would  take  all  of  a  man's  time  to  be 


MARTIN  EDEN  45 

polite,  and  that  he  would  have  to  live  a  preliminary  life  in 
which  to  learn  how  to  be  polite. 

"  Did  you  find  what  you  wanted  ?  "  the  man  at  the  desk 
asked  him  as  he  was  leaving. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  answered.  "You  have  a  fine  library 
here." 

The  man  nodded.  "  We  should  be  glad  to  see  you 
here  often.  Are  you  a  sailor  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  answered.     "  And  I'll  come  again." 

Now,  how  did  he  know  that  ?  he  asked  himself  as  he 
went  down  the  stairs. 

And  for  the  first  block  along  the  street  he  walked  very 
stiff  and  straight  and  awkwardly,  until  he  forgot  him 
self  in  his  thoughts,  whereupon  his  rolling  gait  gracefully 
returned  to  him. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  TERRIBLE  restlessness  that  was  akin  to  hunger  afflicted 
Martin  Eden.  He  was  famished  for  a  sight  of  the  girl 
whose  slender  hands  had  gripped  his  life  with  a  giant's 
grasp.  He  could  not  steel  himself  to  call  upon  her.  He 
was  afraid  that  he  might  call  too  soon,  and  so  be  guilty 
of  an  awful  breach  of  that  awful  thing  called  etiquette. 
He  spent  long  hours  in  the  Oakland  and  Berkeley  libraries, 
and  made  out  application  blanks  for  membership  for  him 
self,  his  sisters  Gertrude  and  Marian,  and  Jim,  the  latter's 
consent  being  obtained  at  the  expense  of  several  glasses  of 
beer.  With  four  cards  permitting  him  to  draw  books,  he 
burned  the  gas  late  in  the  servant's  room,  and  was  charged 
fifty  cents  a  week  for  it  by  Mr.  Higgmbotham. 

The  many  books  he  read  but  served  to  whet  his  unrest. 
Every  page  of  every  book  was  a  peep-hole  into  the  realm 
of  knowledge.  His  hunger  fed  upon  what  he  read,  and 
increased.  Also,  he  did  not  know  where  to  begin,  and 
continually  suffered  from  lack  of  preparation.  The  com 
monest  references,  that  he  could  see  plainly  every  reader 
was  expected  to  know,  he  did  not  know.  And  the  same 
was  true  of  the  poetry  he  read  which  maddened  him  with 
delight.  He  read  more  of  Swinburne  than  was  contained 
in  the  volume  Ruth  had  lent  him;  and  "  Dolores  "  he  un 
derstood  thoroughly.  But  surely  Ruth  did  not  understand 
it,  he  concluded.  How  could  she,  living  the  refined  life 
she  did?  Then  he  chanced  upon  Kipling's  poems,  and 
was  swept  away  by  the  lilt  and  swing  and  glamour  with 
which  familiar  things  had  been  invested.  He  was  amazed 
at  the  man's  sympathy  with  life  and  at  his  incisive  psy 
chology.  Psychology  was  a  new  word  in  Martin's  vo 
cabulary.  He  had  bought  a  dictionary,  which  deed  had 
decreased  his  supply  of  money  and  brought  nearer  the  day 

46 


MARTIN  EDEN  47 

on  which  he  must  sail  in  search  of  more.  Also,  it  incensed 
Mr.  Higginbotham,  who  would  have  preferred  the  money 
taking  the  form  of  board. 

He  dared  not  go  near  Ruth's  neighborhood  in  the  day 
time,  but  night  found  him  lurking  like  a  thief  around  the 
Morse  home,  stealing  glimpses  at  the  windows  and  loving 
the  very  walls  that  sheltered  her.  Several  times  he  barely 
escaped  being  caught  by  her  brothers,  and  once  he  trailed 
Mr.  Morse  down  town  and  studied  his  face  in  the  lighted 
streets,  longing  all  the  while  for  some  quick  danger  of 
death  to  threaten  so  that  he  might  spring  in  and  save  her 
father.  On  another  night,  his  vigil  was  rewarded  by  a 
glimpse  of  Ruth  through  a  second-story  window.  He  saw 
only  her  head  and  shoulders,  and  her  arms  raised  as  she 
fixed  her  hair  before  a  mirror.  It  was  only  for  a  moment, 
but  it  was  a  long  moment  to  him,  during  which  his  blood 
turned  to  wine  and  sang  through  his  veins.  Then  she 
pulled  down  the  shade.  But  it  was  her  room  —  he  had 
learned  that ;  and  thereafter  he  strayed  there  often,  hiding 
under  a  dark  tree  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  and 
smoking  countless  cigarettes.  One  afternoon  he  saw  her 
mother  coming  out  of  a  bank,  and  received  another 
proof  of  the  enormous  distance  that  separated  Ruth  from 
him.  She  was  of  the  class  that  dealt  with  banks.  He  had 
never  been  inside  a  bank  in  his  life,  and  he  had  an  idea 
that  such  institutions  were  frequented  only  by  the  very  rich 
and  the  very  powerful. 

In  one  way,  he  had  undergone  a  moral  revolution.  Her 
cleanness  and  purity  had  reacted  upon  him,  and  he  felt  in 
his  being  a  crying  need  to  be  clean.  He  must  be  that  if 
he  were  ever  to  be  worthy  of  breathing  the  same  air  with 
her.  He  washed  his  teeth,  and  scrubbed  his  hands  with  a 
kitchen  scrub-brush  till  he  saw  a  nail-brush  in  a  drug-store 
window  and  divined  its  use.  While  purchasing  it,  the  clerk 
glanced  at  his  nails,  suggested  a  nail-file,  and  so  he  became 
possessed  of  an  additional  toilet-tool.  He  ran  across  a 
book  in  the  library  on  the  care  of  the  body,  and  promptly 
developed  a  penchant  for  a  cold- water  bath  every  morning, 
much  to  the  amazement  of  Jim,  and  to  the  bewilderment 


48  MARTIN  EDEN 

of  Mr.  Higginbotham,  who  was  not  in  sympathy  with  such 
high-fangled  notions  and  who  seriously  debated  whether  or 
not  he  should  charge  Martin  extra  for  the  water.  Another 
stride  was  in  the  direction  of  creased  trousers.  Now  that 
Martin  was  aroused  in  such  matters,  he  swiftly  noted  the 
difference  between  the  baggy  knees  of  the  trousers  worn 
by  the  working  class  and  the  straight  line  from  knee  to 
foot  of  those  worn  by  the  men  above  the  working  class. 
Also,  he  learned  the  reason  why,  and  invaded  his  sister's 
kitchen  in  search  of  irons  and  ironing-board.  He  had 
misadventures  at  first,  hopelessly  burning  one  pair  and  buy 
ing  another,  which  expenditure  again  brought  nearer  the 
day  on  which  he  must  put  to  sea. 

But  the  reform  went  deeper  than  mere  outward  appear 
ance.  He  still  smoked,  but  he  drank  no  more.  Up  to 
that  time,  drinking  had  seemed  to  him  the  proper  thing 
for  men  to  do,  and  he  had  prided  himself  on  his  strong 
head  which  enabled  him  to  drink  most  men  under  the 
table.  Whenever  he  encountered  a  chance  shipmate,  and 
there  were  many  in  San  Francisco,  he  treated  them  and 
was  treated  in  turn,  as  of  old,  but  he  ordered  for  himself 
root  beer  or  ginger  ale  and  good-naturedly  endured  their 
chaffing.  And  as  they  waxed  maudlin  he  studied  them, 
watching  the  beast  rise  and  master  them  and  thanking 
God  that  he  was  no  longer  as  they.  They  had  their  limi 
tations  to  forget,  and  when  they  were  drunk,  their  dim, 
stupid  spirits  were  even  as  gods,  and  each  ruled  in  his 
heaven  of  intoxicated  desire.  With  Martin  the  need  for 
strong  drink  had  vanished.  He  was  drunken  iii  new  and 
more  profound  ways  —  with  Ruth,  who  had  fired  him  with 
love  and  with  a  glimpse  of  higher  and  eternal  life  ;  with 
books,  that  had  set  a  myriad  maggots  of  desire  gnawing  in 
his  brain  ;  and  with  the  sense  of  personal  cleanliness  he  was 
achieving,  that  gave  him  even  more  superb  health  than  what 
he  had  enjoyed  and  that  made  his  whole  body  sing  with 
physical  well-being. 

One  night  he  went  to  the  theatre,  on  the  blind  chance 
that  he  might  see  her  there,  and  from  the  second  balcony 
he  did  see  her.  He  saw  her  come  down  the  aisle,  with 


MARTIN  EDEN  49 

Arthur  and  a  strange  young  man  with  a  football  mop  of 
hair  and  eyeglasses,  the  sight  of  whom  spurred  him  to  in 
stant  apprehension  and  jealousy.  He  saw  her  take  her 
seat  in  the  orchestra  circle,  and  little  else  than  her  did  he 
see  that  night  —  a  pair  of  slender  white  shoulders  and  a 
mass  of  pale  gold  hair,  dim  with  distance.  But  there  were 
others  who  saw,  and  now  and  again,  glancing  at  those 
about  him,  he  noted  two  young  girls  who  looked  back 
from  the  row  in  front,  a  dozen  seats  along,  and  who  smiled 
at  him  with  bold  eyes.  He  had  always  been  easy-going. 
It  was  not  in  his  nature  to  give  rebuff.  In  the  old  days 
he  would  have  smiled  back,  and  gone  further  and  encouiv 
aged  smiling.  But  now  it  was  different.  He  did  smile 
back,  then  looked  away,  and  looked  no  more  deliberately. 
But  several  times,  forgetting  the  existence  of  the  fwo  girls, 
his  eyes  caught  their  smiles.  He  could  not  re-thumb  him 
self  in  a  day,  nor  could  he  violate  the  intrinsic  kindliness 
of  his  nature  ;  so,  at  such  moments,  he  smiled  at  the  girls 
in  warm  human  friendliness.  It  was  nothing  new  to  him. 
He  knew  they  were  reaching  out  their  woman's  hands  to 
him.  But  it  was  different  now.  Far  down  there  in  the 
orchestra  circle  was  the  one  woman  in  all  the  world,  so 
different,  so  terrifically  different,  from  these  two  girls  of 
his  class,  that  he  could  feel  for  them  only  pity  and  sor 
row.  He  had  it  in  his  heart  to  wish  that  they  could  pos 
sess,  in  some  small  measure,  her  goodness  and  glory.  And 
not  for  the  world  could  he  hurt  them  because  of  their  out- 
reaching.  He  was  not  flattered  by  it ;  he  even  felt  a  slight 
shame  at  his  lowliness  that  permitted  it.  He  knew,  did 
he  belong  in  Ruth's  class,  that  there  would  be  no  over 
tures  from  these  girls ;  and  with  each  glance  of  theirs  he 
felt  the  fingers  of  his  own  class  clutching  at  him  to  hold 
him  down. 

He  left  his  seat  before  the  curtain  went  down  on  the 
last  act,  intent  on  seeing  Her  as  she  passed  out.  There 
were  always  numbers  of  men  who  stood  on  the  sidewalk 
outside,  and  he  could  pull  his  cap  down  over  his  eyes  and 
screen  himself  behind  some  one's  shoulder  so  that  she 
should  not  see  him.  He  emerged  from  the  theatre  with 


50  MARTIN  EDEN 

the  first  of  the  crowd ;  but  scarcely  had  he  taken  his  posi 
tion  on  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk  when  the  two  girls  ap 
peared.  They  were  looking  for  him,  he  knew ;  and  for 
the  moment  he  could  have  cursed  that  in  him  which  drew 
women.  Their  casual  edging  across  the  sidewalk  to  the 
curb,  as  they  drew  near,  apprised  him  of  discovery.  They 
slowed  down,  and  were  in  the  thick  of  the  crowd  as  they 
came  up  with  him.  One  of  them  brushed  against  him  and 
apparently  for  the  first  time  noticed  him.  She  was  a  slen 
der,  dark  girl,  with  black,  defiant  eyes.  But  they  smiled 
at  him,  and  he  smiled  back. 

"  Hello,"  he  said. 

It  was  automatic ;  he  had  said  it  so  often  before  under 
similar  circumstances  of  first  meetings.  Besides,  he  could 
do  no  less.  There  was  that  large  tolerance  and  sympathy 
in  his  nature  that  would  permit  him  to  do  no  less.  The 
black-eyed  girl  smiled  gratification  and  greeting,  and 
showed  signs  of  stopping,  while  her  companion,  arm 
linked  in  arm,  giggled  and  likewise  showed  signs  of 
halting.  He  thought  quickly.  It  would  never  do  for 
Her  to  come  out  and  see  him  talking  there  with  them. 
Quite  naturally,  as  a  matter  of  course,  he  swung  in  along 
side  the  dark-eyed  one  and  walked  with  her.  There  was 
no  awkwardness  on  his  part,  no  numb  tongue.  He  was  at 
home  here,  and  he  held  his  own  royally  in  the  badinage, 
bristling  with  slang  and  sharpness,  that  was  always  the 
preliminary  to  getting  acquainted  in  these  swift-moving 
affairs.  At  the  corner  where  the  main  stream  of  people 
flowed  onward,  he  started  to  edge  out  into  the  cross  street. 
But  the  girl  with  the  black  eyes  caught  his  arm,  following 
him  and  dragging  her  companion  after  her,  as  she  cried :  — 

"  Hold  on,  Bill !  What's  yer  rush?  You're  not  goin'  to 
shake  us  so  sudden  as  all  that  ?  "  * 

He  halted  with  a  laugh,  and  turned,  facing  them. 
Across  their  shoulders  he  could  see  the  moving  throng 
passing  under  the  street  lamps.  Where  he  stood  it  was 
not  so  light,  and,  unseen,  he  would  be  able  to  see  Her  as 
she  passed  by.  She  would  certainly  pass  by,  for  that  way 
led  home. 


MARTIN  EDEN  51 

"  What's  her  name  ?  "  he  asked  of  the  giggling  girl, 
nodding  at  the  dark-eyed  one. 

"  You  ask  her,"  was  the  convulsed  response. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?  "  he  demanded,  turning  squarely  on 
the  girl  in  question. 

"  You  ain't  told  me  yours,  yet,"  she  retorted. 

"  You  never  asked  it,"  he  smiled.  "  Besides,  you  guessed 
the  first  rattle.  It's  Bill,  all  right,  all  right." 

"  Aw,  go  'long  with  you. "  She  looked  him  in  the  eyes,  her 
own  sharply  passionate  and  inviting.  "  What  is  it,  honest  ?  " 

Again  she  looked.  All  the  centuries  of  woman  since 
sex  began  were  eloquent  in  her  eyes.  And  he  measured 
her  in  a  careless  way,  and  knew,  bold  now,  that  she  would 
begin  to  retreat,  coyly  and  delicately,  as  he  pursued,  ever 
ready  to  reverse  the  game  should  he  turn  faint-hearted. 
And,  too,  he  was  human,  and  could  feel  the  draw  of  her, 
while  his  ego  could  not  but  appreciate  the  flattery  of  her 
kindness.  Oh,  he  knew  it  all,  and  knew  them  well,  from 
A  to  Z.  Good,  as  goodness  might  be  measured  in  their 
particular  class,  hard-working  for  meagre  wages  and 
scorning  the  sale  of  self  for  easier  ways,  nervously  de 
sirous  for  some  small  pinch  of  happiness  in  the  desert 
of  existence,  and  facing  a  future  that  was  a  gamble  be 
tween  the  ugliness  of  unending  toil  and  the  black  pit  of 
more  terrible  wretchedness,  the  way  whereto  being  briefer 
though  better  paid. 

"  Bill,"  he  answered,  nodding  his  head.  "  Sure,  Pete, 
Bill  an'  no  other." 

"  No  joshin'  ?  "  she  queried. 

"  It  ain't  Bill  at  all,"  the  other  broke  in. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  he  demanded.  "  You  never  laid 
eyes  on  me  before." 

"  No  need  to,  to  know  you're  lyin',"  was  the  retort. 

"  Straight,  Bill,  what  is  it  ?  "  the  first  girl  asked. 

"  Bill'll  do,"  he  confessed. 

She  reached  out  to  his  arm  and  shook  him  playfully.  "  I 
knew  you  was  lyin',  but  you  look  good  to  me  just  the  same." 

He  captured  the  hand  that  invited,  and  felt  on  the  palm 
familiar  markings  and  distortions. 


52  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  When'd  you  chuck  the  cannery?  "  he  asked. 

"  How'd  yeh  know  ?  "  and  "  My,  ain't  cheh  a  mind- 
reader  !  "  the  girls  chorussed. 

And  while  he  exchanged  the  stupidities  of  stupid  minds 
with  them,  before  his  inner  sight  towered  the  book-shelves 
of  the  library,  filled  with  the  wisdom  of  the  ages.  He 
smiled  bitterly  at  the  incongruity  of  it,  and  was  assailed 
by  doubts.  But  between  inner  vision  and  outward  pleas 
antry  he  found  time  to  watch  the  theatre  crowd  streaming 
by.  And  then  he  saw  Her,  under  the  lights,  between  her 
brother  and  the  strange  young  man  with  glasses,  and  his 
heart  seemed  to  stand  still.  He  had  waited  long  for  this 
moment.  He  had  time  to  note  the  light,  fluffy  something 
that  hid  her  queenly  head,  the  tasteful  lines  of  her  wrapped 
figure,  the  gracefulness  of  her  carriage  and  of  the  hand  that 
caught  up  her  skirts ;  and  then  she  was  gone  and  he  was 
left  staring  at  the  two  girls  of  the  cannery,  at  their  tawdry 
attempts  at  prettiness  of  dress,  their  tragic  efforts  to  be 
clean  and  trim,  the  cheap  cloth,  the  cheap  ribbons,  and  the 
cheap  rings  on  the  fingers.  He  felt  a  tug  at  his  arm,  and 
heard  a  voice  saying :  — 

"  Wake  up,  Bill !     What's  the  matter  with  you?  " 

"  What  was  you  sayin'?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  nothin',"  the  dark  girl  answered,  with  a  toss  of 
her  head.  "  I  was  only  remarkin'  —  " 

"What?" 

"  Well,  I  was  whisperin'  it'd  be  a  good  idea  if  you  could 
dig  up  a  gentleman  friend  —  for  her"  (indicating  her  com 
panion),  "  and  then,  we  could  go  off  an'  have  ice-cream 
soda  somewhere,  or  coffee,  or  anything." 

He  was  afflicted  by  a  sudden  spiritual  nausea.  The 
transition  from  Ruth  to  this  had  been  too  abrupt.  Ranged 
side  by  side  with  the  bold,  defiant  eyes  of  the  girl  before 
him,  he  saw  Ruth's  clear,  luminous  eyes,  like  a  saint's, 
gazing  at  him  out  of  unplumbed  depths  of  purity.  And, 
somehow,  he  felt  within  him  a  stir  of  power.  He  was 
better  than  this.  Life  meant  more  to  him  than  it  meant 
to  these  two  girls  whose  thoughts  did  not  go  beyond  ice 
cream  and  a  gentleman  friend.  He  remembered  that  he 


MARTIN  EDEN  53 

had  led  always  a  secret  life  in  his  thoughts.  These 
thoughts  he  had  tried  to  share,  but  never  had  he  found 
a  woman  capable  of  understanding  —  nor  a  man.  He  had 
tried,  at  times,  but  had  only  puzzled  his  listeners.  And 
as  his  thoughts  had  been  beyond  them,  so,  he  argued  now, 
he  must  be  beyond  them.  He  felt  power  move  in  him, 
and  clenched  his  fists.  If  life  meant  more  to  him,  then  it 
was  for  him  to  demand  more  from  life,  but  he  could  not 
demand  it  from  such  companionship  as  this.  Those  bold 
black  eyes  had  nothing  to  offer.  He  knew  the  thoughts 
behind  them  —  of  ice-cream  and  of  something  else.  But 
those  saint's  eyes  alongside — they  offered  all  he  knew  and 
more  than  he  could  guess.  They  offered  books  and  paint 
ing,  beauty  and  repose,  and  all  the  fine  elegance  of  higher 
existence.  Behind  those  black  eyes  he  knew  every  thought 
process.  It  was  like  clockwork.  He  could  watch  every 
wheel  go  around.  Their  bid  was  low  pleasure,  narrow  as 
the  grave,  that  palled,  and  the  grave  was  at  the  end  of  it. 
But  the  bid  of  the  saint's  eyes  was  mystery,  and  wonder 
unthinkable,  and  eternal  life.  He  had  caught  glimpses  of 
the  soul  in  them,  and  glimpses  of  his  own  soul,  too. 

"  There's  only  one  thing  wrong  with  the  programme,"  he 
said  aloud.  "  I've  got  a  date  already." 

The  girl's  eyes  blazed  her  disappointment. 

"  To  sit  up  with  a  sick  friend,  I  suppose?  "  she  sneered. 

"  No,  a  real,  honest  date  with  —  "  he  faltered,  "  with 
a  girl." 

"  You're  not  stringin'  me  ?  "  she  asked  earnestly. 

He  looked  her  in  the  eyes  and  answered  :  "  It's  straight, 
all  right.  But  why  can't  we  meet  some  other  time?  You 
ain't  told  me  your  name  yet.  An'  where  d'ye  live?  " 

"  Lizzie,"  she  replied,  softening  toward  him,  her  hand 
pressing  his  arm,  while  her  body  leaned  against  his.  "  Liz 
zie  Connolly.  And  I  live  at  Fifth  an'  Market." 

He  talked  on  a  few  minutes  before  saying  good  night. 
He  did  not  go  home  immediately ;  and  under  the  tree 
where  he  kept  his  vigils  he  looked  up  at  a  window  and 
murmured :  "  That  date  was  with  you,  Ruth.  I  kept  it 
for  you." 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  WEEK  of  heavy  reading  had  passed  since  the  evening 
he  first  met  Ruth  Morse,  and  still  he  dared  not  call.  Time 
and  again  he  nerved  himself  up  to  call,  but  under  the 
doubts  that  assailed  him  his  determination  died  away.  He 
did  not  know  the  proper  time  to  call,  nor  was  there  any 
one  to  tell  him,  and  he  was  afraid  of  committing  himself  to 
an  irretrievable  blunder.  Having  shaken  himself  free  from 
his  old  companions  and  old  ways  of  life,  and  having  no 
new  companions,  nothing  remained  for  him  but  to  read, 
and  the  long  hours  he  devoted  to  it  would  have  ruined  a 
dozen  pairs  of  ordinary  eyes.  But  his  eyes  were  strong, 
and  they  were  backed  by  a  body  superbly  strong.  Further 
more,  his  mind  was  fallow.  It  had  lain  fallow  all  his  life 
so  far  as  the  abstract  thought  of  the  books  was  concerned, 
and  it  was  ripe  for  the  sowing.  It  had  never  been  jaded 
by  study,  and  it  bit  hold  of  the  knowledge  in  the  books 
with  sharp  teeth  that  would  not  let  go. 

It  seemed  to  him,  by  the  end  of  the  week,  that  he  had 
lived  centuries,  so  far  behind  were  the  old  life  and  outlook. 
But  he  was  baffled  by  lack  of  preparation.  He  attempted 
to  read  books  that  required  years  of  preliminary  speciali 
zation.  One  day  he  would  read  a  book  of  antiquated 
philosophy,  and  the  next  day  one  that  was  ultra-modern, 
so  that  his  head  would  be  whirling  with  the  conflict  and 
contradiction  of  ideas.  It  was  the  same  with  the  econo 
mists.  On  the  one  shelf  at  the  library  he  found  Karl 
Marx,  Ricardo,  Adam  Smith,  and  Mill,  and  the  abstruse 
formulas  of  the  one  gave  no  clew  that  the  ideas  of  another 
were  obsolete.  He  was  bewildered,  and  yet  he  wanted  to 
know.  •  He  had  become  interested,  in  a  day,  in  economics, 
industry,  and  politics.  Passing  through  the  City  Hall 
Park,  he  had  noticed  a  group  of  men,  in  the  centre  of 

54 


MARTIN  EDEN  55 

which  were  half  a  dozen,  with  flushed  faces  and  raised 
voices,  earnestly  carrying  on  a  discussion.  He  joined  the 
listeners,  and  heard  a  new,  alien  tongue  in  the  mouths  of 
the  philosophers  of  the  people.  One  was  a  tramp,  another 
was  a  labor  agitator,  a  third  was  a  law-school  student,  and 
the  remainder  was  composed  of  wordy  workingmen.  For 
the  first  time  he  heard  of  socialism,  anarchism,  and  single 
tax,  and  learned  that  there  were  warring  social  philoso 
phies.  He  heard  hundreds  of  technical  words  that  were 
new  to  him,  belonging  to  fields  of  thought  that  his  meagre 
reading  had  never  touched  upon.  Because  of  this  he 
could  not  follow  the  arguments  closely,  and  he  could  only 
guess  at  and  surmise  the  ideas  wrapped  up  in  such  strange 
expressions.  Then  there  was  a  black-eyed  restaurant 
waiter  who  was  a  theosophist,  a  union  baker  who  was  an 
agnostic,  an  old  man  who  baffled  all  of  them  with  the 
strange  philosophy  that  what  is  is  right,  and  another  old 
man  who  discoursed  interminably  about  the  cosmos  and 
the  father-atom  and  the  mother-atom. 

Martin  Eden's  head  was  in  a  state  of  addlement  when  he 
went  away  after  several  hours,  and  he  hurried  to  the  library 
to  look  up  the  definitions  of  a  dozen  unusual  words.  And 
when  he  left  the  library,  he  carried  under  his  arm  four  rol- 
umes :  Madam  Blavatsky's  "  Secret  Doctrine,"  "  Progress 
and  Poverty,""  The  Quintessence  of  Socialism,"  and"  War 
fare  of  Religion  and  Science."  Unfortunately,  he  began 
on  the  "  Secret  Doctrine."  Every  line  bristled  with  many- 
syllabled  words  he  did  not  understand.  He  sat  up  in  bed, 
and  the  dictionary  was  in  front  of  him  more  often  than  the 
book.  He  looked  up  so  many  new  words  that  when  they 
recurred,  he  had  forgotten  their  meaning  and  had  to  look 
them  up  again.  He  devised  the  plan  ofj  writing  the  defi 
nitions  in  a  note-book,  and  filled  page  after  page  with 
them.  And  still  he  could  not  understand.  He  read  until 
three  in  the  morning,  and  his  brain  was  in  a  turmoil,  but 
not  one  essential  thought  in  the  text  had  he  grasped.  He 
looked  up,  and  it  seemed  that  the  room  was  lifting,  heel 
ing,  and  plunging  like  a  ship  upon  the  sea.  Then  he 
hurled  the  "Secret  Doctrine"  and  many  curses  across  the 


56  MARTIN  EDEN 

room,  turned  off  the  gas,  and  composed  himself  to  sleep. 
Nor  did  he  have  much  better  luck  with  the  other  three 
books.  It  was  not  that  his  brain  was  weak  or  incapable; 
it  could  think  these  thoughts  were  it  not  for  lack  of  train 
ing  in  thinking  and  lack  of  the  thought-tools  with  which 
to  think.  He  guessed  this,  and  for  a  while  entertained 
the  idea  of  reading  nothing  but  the  dictionary  until  he  had 
mastered  every  word  in  it. 

Poetry,  however,  was  his  solace,  and  he  read  much  of  it, 
finding  his  greatest  joy  in  the  simpler  poets,  who  were  more 
understandable.  He  loved  beauty,  and  there  he  found 
beauty.  Poetry,  like  music,  stirred  him  profoundly,  and, 
though  he  did  not  know  it,  he  was  preparing  his  mind  for 
the  heavier  work  that  was  to  come.  The  pages  of  his 
mind  were  blank,  and,  without  effort,  much  he  read  and 
liked,  stanza  by  stanza,  was  impressed  upon  those  pages,  so 
that  he  was  soon  able  to  extract  great  joy  from  chanting 
aloud  or  under  his  breath  the  music  and  the  beauty  of  the 
printed  words  he  had  read.  Then  he  stumbled  upon 
Gayley's  "  Classic  Myths  "  and  Bulfmch's  "Age  of  Fable," 
side  by  side  on  a  library  shelf.  It  was  illumination,  a 
great  light  in  the  darkness  of  his  ignorance,  and  he  read 
poetry  more  avidly  than  ever. 

The  man  at  the  desk  in  the  library  had  seen  Martin 
there  so  often  that  he  had  become  quite  cordial,  always 
greeting  him  with  a  smile  and  a  nod  when  he  entered.  It 
was  because  of  this  that  Martin  did  a  daring  thing. 
Drawing  out  some  books  at  the  desk,  and  while  the  man 
was  stamping  the  cards,  Martin  blurted  out:  — 

"Say,  there's  something  I'd  like  to  ask  you." 

The  man  smiled  and  paid  attention. 

"  When  you  meet  a  young  lady  an'  she  asks  you  to  call, 
how  soon  can  you  call?  " 

Martin  felt  his  shirt  press  and  cling  to  his  shoulders, 
what  of  the  sweat  of  the  effort. 

"Why  I'd  say  any  time,"  the  man  answered. 

"Yes,  but  this  is  different,"  Martin  objected.  "  She  —  I 
—  well,  you  see,  it's  this  way :  maybe  she  won't  be  there. 
She  goes  to  the  university." 


MARTIN  EDEN  57 

"Then  call  again." 

"What  I  said  ain't  what  I  meant,"  Martin  confessed 
falteringly,  while  he  made  up  his  mind  to  throw  himself 
wholly  upon  the  other's  mercy.  "  I'm  just  a  rough  sort 
of  a  fellow,  an'  I  ain't  never  seen  anything  of  society. 
This  girl  is  all  that  I  ain't,  an'  I  ain't  anything  that  she 
is.  You  don't  think  I'm  playin'  the  fool,  do  you?"  he 
demanded  abruptly. 

"  No,  no ;  not  at  all,  I  assure  you,"  the  other  protested. 
"  Your  request  is  not  exactly  in  the  scope  of  the  reference 
department,  but  I  shall  be  only  too  pleased  to  assist  you." 

Martin  looked  at  him  admiringly. 

"  If  I  could  tear  it  off  that  way,  I'd  be  all  right,"  he  said. 

"  I  beg  pardon  ?  " 

"  I  mean  if  I  could  talk  easy  that  way,  an'  polite,  an'  all 
the  rest." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  other,  with  comprehension. 

"  What  is  the  best  time  to  call  ?  The  afternoon  ?  —  not 
too  close  to  meal-time  ?  Or  the  evening  ?  Or  Sunday  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  the  librarian  said  with  a  brightening 
face.  "  You  call  her  up  on  the  telephone  and  find  out." 

"  I'll  do  it,"  he  said,  picking  up  his  books  and  starting 
away. 

He  turned  back  and  asked :  — 

"When  you're  speakin'  to  a  young  lady — say,  for  in 
stance,  Miss  Lizzie  Smith  —  do  you  say  '  Miss  Lizzie '  ?  or 
'Miss  Smith'?" 

"  Say  '  Miss  Smith,' "  the  librarian  stated  authorita 
tively.  "  Say  '  Miss  Smith '  always  —  until  you  come  to 
know  her  better." 

So  it  was  that  Martin  Eden  solved  the  problem. 

"  Come  down  any  time ;  I'll  be  at  home  all  afternoon," 
was  Ruth's  reply  over  the  telephone  to  his  stammered 
request  as  to  when  he  could  return  the  borrowed  books. 

She  met  him  at  the  door  herself,  and  her  woman's  eyes 
took  in  immediately  the  creased  trousers  and  the  certain 
slight  but  indefinable  change  in  him  for  the  better.  Also, 
she  was  struck  by  his  face.  It  was  almost  violent,  this 
health  of  his,  and  it  seemed  to  rush  out  of  him  and  at  her  in 


58  MARTIN  EDEN 

waves  of  force.  She  felt  the  urge  again  of  the  desire  to 
lean  toward  him  for  warmth,  and  marvelled  again  at  the 
effect  his  presence  produced  upon  her.  And  he,  in  turn, 
knew  again  the  swimming  sensation  of  bliss  when  he  felt 
the  contact  of  her  hand  in  greeting.  The  difference  be 
tween  them  lay  in  that  she  was  cool  and  self-possessed 
while  his  face  flushed  to  the  roots  of  the  hair.  He  stum 
bled  with  his  old  awkwardness  after  her,  and  his  shoulders 
swung  and  lurched  perilously. 

Once  they  were  seated  in  the  living-room,  he  began  to 
get  on  easily  —  more  easily  by  far  than  he  had  expected. 
She  made  it  easy  for  him ;  and  the  gracious  spirit  with 
which  she  did  it  made  him  love  her  more  madly  than  ever. 
They  talked  first  of  the  borrowed  books,  of  the  Swinburne 
he  was  devoted  to,  and  of  the  Browning  he  did  not  under 
stand  ;  and  she  led  the  conversation  on  from  subject  to 
subject,  while  she  pondered  the  problem  of  how  she  could 
be  of  help  to  him.  She  had  thought  of  this  often  since 
their  first  meeting.  She  wanted  to  help  him.  He  made 
a  call  upon  her  pity  and  tenderness  that  no  one  had  ever 
made  before,  and  the  pity  was  not  so  much  derogatory  of 
him  as  maternal  in  her.  Her  pity  could  not  be  of  the 
common  sort,  when  the  man  who  drew  it  was  so  much 
man  as  to  shock  her  with  maidenly  fears  and  set  her  mind 
and  pulse  thrilling  with  strange  thoughts  and  feelings. 
The  old  fascination  of  his  neck  was  there,  and  there  was 
sweetness  in  the  thought  of  laying  her  hands  upon  it.  It 
seemed  still  a  wanton  impulse,  but  she  had  grown  more 
used  to  it.  She  did  not  dream  that  in  such  guise  new 
born  love  would  epitomize  itself.  Nor  did  she  dream  that 
the  feeling  he  excited  in  her  was  love.  She  thought  she 
was  merely  interested  in  him  as  an  unusual  type  possess 
ing  various  potential  excellencies,  and  she  even  felt  phil 
anthropic  about  it. 

She  did  not  know  she  desired  him  ;  but  with  him  it  was 
different.  He  knew  that  he  loved  her,  and  he  desired  her 
as  he  had  never  before  desired  anything  in  his  life.  He 
had  loved  poetry  for  beauty's  sake  ;  but  since  he  met  her 
the  gates  to  the  vast  field  of  love-poe  bry  had  been  opened 


MARTIN   EDEN  59 

wide.  She  had  given  him  understanding  even  more  than 
Bulfinch  and  Gayley.  There  was  a  line  that  a  week  be 
fore  he  would  not  have  favored  with  a  second  thought  — 
"  God's  own  mad  lover  dying  on  a  kiss  " ;  but  now  it  was 
ever  insistent  in  his  mind.  He  marvelled  at  the  wonder 
of  it  and  the  truth ;  and  as  he  gazed  upon  her  he  knew 
that  he  could  die  gladly  upon  a  kiss.  He  felt  himself 
God's  own  mad  lover,  and  no  accolade  of  knighthood 
could  have  given  him  greater  pride.  And  at  last  he 
knew  the  meaning  of  life  and  why  he  had  been  born. 

As  he  gazed  at  her  and  listened,  his  thoughts  grew 
daring.  He  reviewed  all  the  wild  delight  of  the  pressure 
of  her  hand  in  his  at  the  door,  and  longed  for  it  again. 
His  gaze  wandered  often  toward  her  lips,  and  he  yearned 
for  them  hungrily.  But  there  was  nothing  gross  or 
earthly  about  this  yearning.  It  gave  him  exquisite  delight 
to  watch  every  movement  and  play  of  those  lips  as  they 
enunciated  the  words  she  spoke ;  yet  they  were  not  ordi 
nary  lips  such  as  all  men  and  women  had.  Their  sub 
stance  was  not  mere  human  clay.  They  were  lips  of 
pure  spirit,  and  his  desire  for  them  seemed  absolutely 
different  from  the  desire  that  had  led  him  to  other  women's 
lips.  He  could  kiss  her  lips,  rest  his  own  physical  lips 
upon  them,  but  it  would  be  with  the  lofty  and  awful 
fervor  with  which  one  would  kiss  the  robe  of  God.  He 
was  not  conscious  of  this  transvaluation  of  values  that  had 
taken  place  in  him,  and  was  unaware  that  the  light  that 
shone  in  his  eyes  when  he  looked  at  her  was  quite  the 
same  light  that  shines  in  all  men's  eyes  when  the  desire  of 
love  is  upon  them.  He  did  not  dream  how  ardent  and 
masculine  his  gaze  was,  nor  that  the  warm  flame  of  it  was 
affecting  the  alchemy  of  her  spirit.  Her  penetrative  vir 
ginity  exalted  and  disguised  his  own  emotions,  elevating  his 
thoughts  to  a  star-cool  chastity,  and  he  would  have  been 
startled  to  learn  that  there  was  that  shining  out  of  his 
eyes,  like  warm  waves,  that  flowed  through  her  and  kin 
dled  a  kindred  warmth.  She  was  subtly  perturbed  by  it, 
and  more  than  once,  though  she  knew  not  why,  it  disrupted 
her  train  of  thought  with  its  delicious  intrusion  and  coin- 


60  MARTIN  EDEN 

pelled  her  to  grope  for  the  remainder  of  ideas  partly 
uttered.  Speech  was  always  easy  with  her,  and  these 
interruptions  would  have  puzzled  her  had  she  not  decided 
that  it  was  because  he  was  a  remarkable  type.  She  was 
very  sensitive  to  impressions,  and  it  was  not  strange,  after 
all,  that  this  aura  of  a  traveller  from  another  world  should 
so  affect  her. 

The  problem  in  the  background  of  her  consciousness  was 
how  to  help  him,  and  she  turned  the  conversation  in  that 
direction;  but  it  was  Martin  who  came  to  the  point  first. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  can  get  some  advice  from  you,"  he  began, 
and  received  an  acquiescence  of  willingness  that  made  his 
heart  bound.  "  You  remember  the  other  time  I  was  here 
I  said  I  couldn't  talk  about  books  an'  things  because  I 
didn't  know  how  ?  Well,  I've  ben  doin'  a  lot  of  thinkin' 
ever  since.  I've  ben  to  the  library  a  whole  lot,  but  most 
of  the  books  I've  tackled  have  ben  over  my  head.  Mebbe 
I'd  better  begin  at  the  beginnin'.  I  ain't  never  had  no 
advantages.  I've  worked  pretty  hard  ever  since  I  was  a 
kid,  an'  since  I've  ben  to  the  library,  lookin'  with  new  eyes 
at  books  —  an'  lookin'  at  new  books,  too  —  I've  just  about 
concluded  that  I  ain't  ben  reading  the  right  kind.  You 
know  the  books  you  find  in  cattle-camps  an'  fo'c's'ls  ain't 
the  same  you've  got  in  this  house,  for  instance.  Well, 
that's  the  sort  of  readin'  matter  I've  ben  accustomed  to. 
And  yet  —  an'  I  ain't  just  makin'  a  brag  of  it —  I've  ben 
different  from  the  people  I've  herded  with.  Not  that  I'm 
any  better  than  the  sailors  an'  cow-punchers  I  travelled 
with, —  I  was  cow-punchin'  for  a  short  time,  you  know, — 
but  I  always  liked  books,  read  everything  I  could  lay  hands 
on,  an'  —  well,  I  guess  I  think  differently  from  most  of  'em, 

"Now,  to  come  to  what  I'm  drivin'  at.  I  was  never 
inside  a  house  like  this.  When  I  come  a  week  ago,  an' 
saw  all  this,  an'  you,  an'  your  mother,  an'  brothers,  an' 
everything  —  well,  I  liked  it.  I'd  heard  about  snch  things 
an'  read  about  such  things  in  some  of  the  books,  an'  when 
I  looked  around  at  your  house,  why,  the  books  come  true. 
But  the  thing  I'm  after  is  I  liked  it.  I  wanted  it.  I 
want  it  now.  I  want  to  breathe  air  like  you  get  in  this 


MARTIN  EDEN  61 

house  —  air  that  is  filled  with  books,  and  pictures,  and 
beautiful  things,  where  people  talk  in  low  voices  an'  are 
clean,  an'  their  thoughts  are  clean.  The  air  I  always 
breathed  was  mixed  up  with  grub  an'  house-rent  an' 
scrappin'  an  booze  an'  that's  all  they  talked  about,  too. 
Why,  when  you  was  crossin'  the  room  to  kiss  your  mother, 
I  thought  it  was  the  most  beautiful  thing  I  ever  seen. 
I've  seen  a  whole  lot  of  life,  an'  somehow  I've  seen  a 
whole  lot  more  of  it  than  most  of  them  that  was  with  me. 
I  like  to  see,  an'  I  want  to  see  more,  an'  I  want  to  see  it 
different. 

"  But  I  ain't  got  to  the  point  yet.  Here  it  is.  I  want 
to  make  my  way  to  the  kind  of  life  you  have  in  this  house. 
There's  more  in  life  than  booze,  an'  hard  work,  an* 
knockin'  about.  Now,  how  am  I  goin'  to  get  it  ?  Where 
do  I  take  hold  an'  begin  ?  I'm  willin'  to  work  my  passage, 
you  know,  an'  I  can  make  most  men  sick  when  it  comes 
to  hard  work.  Once  I  get  started,  I'll  work  night  an' 
day.  Mebbe  you  think  it's  funny,  me  askin'  you  about  all 
this.  I  know  you're  the  last  person  in  the  world  I  ought 
to  ask,  but  I  don't  know  anybody  else  I  could  ask  —  unless 
it's  Arthur.  Mebbe  I  ought  to  ask  him.  If  I  was  —  " 

His  voice  died  away.  His  firmly  planned  intention  had 
come  to  a  halt  on  the  verge  of  the  horrible  probability  that 
he  should  have  asked  Arthur  and  that  he  had  made  a  fool 
of  himself.  Ruth  did  not  speak  immediately.  She  was 
too  absorbed  in  striving  to  reconcile  the  stumbling,  un 
couth  speech  and  its  simplicity  of  thought  with  what  she 
saw  in  his  face.  She  had  never  looked  in  eyes  that  ex 
pressed  greater  power.  Here  was  a  man  who  could  do 
anything,  was  the  message  she  read  there,  and  it  accorded 
ill  with  the  weakness  of  his  spoken  thought.  And  for  that 
matter  so  complex  and  quick  was  her  own  mind  that  she 
did  riot  have  a  just  appreciation  of  simplicity.  And  yet 
she  had  caught  an  impression  of  power  in  the  very  grop 
ing  of  this  mind.  It  had  seemed  to  her  like  a  giant  writh 
ing  and  straining  at  the  bonds  that  held  him  down.  Her 
face  was  all  sympathy  when  she  did  speak. 

"  What  you  need,  you  realize  yourself,  and  it  is  educa- 


62  MARTIN  EDEN 

tion.  You  should  go  back  and  finish  grammar  school,  and 
then  go  through  the  high  school  and  university." 

"  But  that  takes  money,"  he  interrupted. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  cried.  "  I  had  not  thought  of  that.  But 
then  you  have  relatives,  somebody  who  could  assist  you  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  My  father  and  mother  are  dead.  I've  two  sisters,  one 
married,  an'  the  other'll  get  married  soon,  I  suppose. 
Then  I've  a  string  of  brothers,  —  I'm  the  youngest,  —  but 
they  never  helped  nobody.  They've  just  knocked  around 
over  the  world,  lookin'  out  for  number  one.  The  oldest 
died  in  India.  Two  are  in  South  Africa  now,  an'  another's 
on  a  whaling  voyage,  an'  one's  travellin'  with  a  circus  — 
he  does  trapeze  work.  An'  I  guess  I'm  just  like  them. 
I've  taken  care  of  myself  since  I  was  eleven  —  that's  when 
my  mother  died.  I've  got  to  study  by  myself,  I  guess, 
an'  what  I  want  to  know  is  where  to  begin." 

"I  should  say  the  first  thing  of  all  would  be  to  get 
a  grammar.  Your  grammar  is  — "  She  had  intended 
saying  "awful,"  but  she  amended  it  to  "is  not  particu 
larly  good." 

He  flushed  and  sweated. 

"  I  know  I  must  talk  a  lot  of  slang  an'  words  you  don't 
understand.  But  then  they're  the  only  words  I  know 
—  how  to  speak.  I've  got  other  words  in  my  mind, 
picked  'em  up  from  books,  but  I  can't  pronounce  'em,  so 
I  don't  use  'em." 

"  It  isn't  what  you  say,  so  much  as  how  you  say  it. 
You  don't  mind  my  being  frank,  do  you?  I  don't  want 
to  hurt  you." 

"No,  no,"  he  cried,  while  he  secretly  blessed  her  for 
her  kindness.  "  Fire  away.  I've  got  to  know,  an'  I'd 
sooner  know  from  you  than  anybody  else." 

"  Well,  then,  you  say,  '  You  was ' ;  it  should  be,  '  You 
were.'  You  say  '  I  seen  '  for  '  I  saw.'  You  use  the  double 
negative  —  " 

"  What's  the  double  negative  ?  "  he  demanded ;  then 
added  humbly,  "  You  see,  I  don't  even  understand  your 
explanations." 


MARTIN  EDEN  63 

"I'm  afraid  I  didn't  explain  that,"  she  smiled.  "A 
double  negative  is  —  let  me  see  —  well,  you  say,  'neve** 
helped  nobody.'  'Never'  is  a  negative.  'Nobody'  is 
another  negative.  It  is  a  rule  that  two  negatives  make 
a  positive.  '  Never  helped  nobody '  means  that,  not  help 
ing  nobody,  they  must  have  helped  somebody." 

"That's  pretty  clear,"  he  said.  "I  never  thought  of 
it  before.  But  it  don't  mean  they  must  have  helped 
somebody,  does  it?  Seems  to  me  that  'never  helped 
nobody'  just  naturally  fails  to  say  whether  or  not  they 
helped  somebody.  I  never  thought  of  it  before,  and  I'll 
never  say  it  again." 

She  was  pleased  and  surprised  with  the  quickness  and 
surety  of  his  mind.  As  soon  as  he  had  got  the  clew  he 
not  only  understood  but  corrected  her  error. 

''You'll  find  it  all  in  the  grammar,"  she  went  on. 
"  There's  something  else  I  noticed  in  your  speech.  You 
say  '  don't '  when  you  shouldn't.  '  Don't '  is  a  contraction 
and  stands  for  two  words.  Do  you  know  them  ?  " 

He  thought  a  moment,  then  answered,  "  'Do  not.' ' 

She  nodded  her  head,  and  said,  "  And  you  use  '  don't ' 
when  you  mean  '  does  not.' ' 

He  was  puzzled  over  this,  and  did  not  get  it  so  quickly. 

"  Give  me  an  illustration,"  he  asked. 

"Well  — "  She  puckered  her  brows  and  pursed  up 
her  mouth  as  she  thought,  while  he  looked  on  and  decided 
that  her  expression  was  most  adorable.  " '  It  don't  do  to 
be  hasty.'  Change  'don't'  to  'do  not,'  and  it  reads,  'It 
do  not  do  to  be  hasty,'  which  is  perfectly  absurd." 

He  turned  it  over  in  his  mind  and  considered. 

"  Doesn't  it  jar  on  your  ear  ?  "  she  suggested. 

"  Can't  say  that  it  does,"  he  replied  judicially. 

"  Why  didn't  you  say,  '  Can't  say  that  it  do '  ? "  she 
queried. 

"  That  sounds  wrong,"  he  said  slowly.  "  As  for  the 
other  I  can't  make  up  my  mind.  I  guess  my  ear  ain't 
had  the  trainin'  yours  has." 

"  There  is  no  such  word  as  '  ain't,'  "  she  said,  prettily 
emphatic. 


64  MARTIN  EDEN 

Martin  flushed  again. 

"And  you  say 'ben'  for  'been,' "she  continued;  "'I 
come '  for  '  I  came ' ;  and  the  way  you  chop  your  endings 
is  something  dreadful." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  "  He  leaned  forward,  feeling  that 
he  ought  to  get  down  on  his  knees  before  so  marvellous  a 
mind.  "  How  do  I  chop  ?  " 

"You  don't  complete  the  endings.  'A-n-d'  spells 
'and.'  You  pronounce  it  'an'.'  'I-n-g'  spells  'ing.' 
Sometimes  you  pronounce  it  '  ing '  and  sometimes  you 
leave  off  the  'g.'  And  then  you  slur  by  dropping  initial 
letters  and  diphthongs.  'T-h-e-m'  spells  'them.'  You 
pronounce  it  —  oh,  well,  it  is  not  necessary  to  go  over 
all  of  them.  What  you  need  is  the  grammar.  I'll  get 
one  and  show  you  how  to  begin." 

As  she  arose,  there  shot  through  his  mind  something 
that  he  had  read  in  the  etiquette  books,  and  he  stood 
up  awkwardly,  worrying  as  to  whether  he  was  doing  the 
right  thing,  and  fearing  that  she  might  take  it  as  a  sign 
that  he  was  about  to  go. 

"  By  the  way,  Mr.  Eden,"  she  called  back,  as  she  was 
leaving  the  room.  "  What  is  booze  f  You  used  it  several 
times,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  booze,"  he  laughed.  "  It's  slang.  It  means  whis 
key  an'  beer  —  anything  that  will  make  you  drunk." 

"  And  another  thing,"  she  laughed  back.  "  Don't  use 
'  you  '  when  you  are  impersonal.  '  You '  is  very  personal, 
and  your  use  of  it  just  now  was  not  precisely  what  you 
meant." 

"  I  don't  just  see  that." 

"Why,  you  said  just  now,  to  me,  'whiskey  and  beer  — 
anything  that  will  make  you  drunk' — make  me  drunk, 
don't  you  see  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  would,  wouldn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  she  smiled.  "  But  it  would  be  nicer 
not  to  bring  me  into  it.  Substitute  '  one '  for  '  you '  and 
see  how  much  better  it  sounds." 

When  she  returned  with  the  grammar,  she  drew  a  chair 
near  his  —  he  wondered  if  he  should  have  helped  her  with 


MARTIN  EDEN  65 

the  chair  —  and  sat  down  beside  him.  She  turned  the 
pages  of  the  grammar,  and  their  heads  were  inclined 
toward  each  other.  He  could  hardly  follow  her  outlin 
ing  of  the  work  he  must  do,  so  amazed  was  he  by  her 
delightful  propinquity.  But  when  she  began  to  lay  down 
the  importance  of  conjugation,  he  forgot  all  about  her. 
He  had  never  heard  of  conjugation,  and  was  fascinated 
by  the  glimpse  he  was  catching  into  the  tie-ribs  of  lan 
guage.  He  leaned  closer  to  the  page,  and  her  hair  touched 
his  cheek.  He  had  fainted  but  once  in  his  life,  and  he 
thought  he  was  going  to  faint  again.  He  could  scarcely 
breathe,  and  his  heart  was  pounding  the  blood  up  into  his 
throat  and  suffocating  him.  Never  had  she  seemed  so 
accessible  as  now.  For  the  moment  the  great  gulf  that 
separated  them  was  bridged.  But  there  was  no  diminu 
tion  in  the  loftiness  of  his  feeling  for  her.  She  had  not 
descended  to  him.  It  was  he  who  had  been  caught  up 
into  the  clouds  and  carried  to  her.  His  reverence  for 
her,  in  that  moment,  was  of  the  same  order  as  religious 
awe  and  fervor.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  intruded 
upon  the  holy  of  holies,  and  slowly  and  carefully  he  moved 
his  head  aside  from  the  contact  which  thrilled  him  like 
an  electric  shock  and  of  which  she  had  not  been  aware. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SEVERAL  weeks  went  by,  during  which  Martin  Eden 
studied  his  grammar,  reviewed  the  books  on  etiquette,  and 
read  voraciously  the  books  that  caught  his  fancy.  Of  his 
own  class  he  saw  nothing.  The  girls  of  the  Lotus  Club 
wondered  what  had  become  of  him  and  worried  Jim 
with  questions,  and  some  of  the  fellows  who  put  on  the 
glove  at  Riley's  were  glad  that  Martin  came  no  more.  He 
made  another  discovery  of  treasure-trove  in  the  library. 
As  the  grammar  had  shown  him  the  tie-ribs  of  language, 
so  that  book  showed  him  the  tie-ribs  of  poetry,  and  he 
began  to  learn  metre  and  construction  and  form,  beneath 
the  beauty  he  loved  finding  the  why  and  wherefore 
of  that  beauty.  Another  modern  book  he  found  treated 
poetry  as  a  representative  art,  treated  it  exhaustively, 
with  copious  illustrations  from  the  best  in  literature. 
Never  had  he  read  fiction  with  so  keen  zest  as  he 
studied  these  books.  And  his  fresh  mind,  untaxed  for 
twenty  years  and  impelled  by  maturity  of  desire,  gripped 
hold  of  what  he  read  with  a  virility  unusual  to  the  student 
mind. 

When  he  looked  back  now  from  his  vantage-ground, 
the  old  world  he  had  known,  the  world  of  land  and  sea 
and  ships,  of  sailor-men  and  harpy-women,  seemed  a  very 
small  world;  and  yet  it  blended  in  with  this  new  world 
and  expanded.  His  mind  made  for  unity,  and  he  was 
surprised  when  at  first  he  began  to  see  points  of  contact 
between  the  two  worlds.  And  he  was  ennobled,  as  well, 
by  the  loftiness  of  thought  and  beauty  he  found  in  the 
books.  This  led  him  to  believe  more  firmly  than  ever  that 
up  above  him,  in  society  like  Ruth  and  her  family,  all 
men  and  women  thought  these  thoughts  and  lived  them. 
Down  below  where  he  lived  was  the  ignoble,  and  he 

66 


MARTIN  EDEN  67 

to  purge  himself  of  the  ignoble  that  had  soiled 
all  his  days,  and  to  rise  to  that  sublimated  realm  where 
dwelt  the  upper  classes.  All  his  childhood  and  youth 
had  been  troubled  by  a  vague  unrest;  he  had  never  known 
what  he  wanted,  but  he  had  wanted  something  that  he 
had  hunted  vainly  for  until  he  met  Ruth.  And  now  his 
unrest  had  become  sharp  and  painful,  and  he  knew  at  last, 
clearly  and  definitely,  that  it  was  beauty,  and  intellect, 
and  love  that  he  must  have. 

During  those  several  weeks  he  saw  Ruth  half  a  dozen 
times,  and  each  time  was  an  added  inspiration.  She 
helped  him  with  his  English,  corrected  his  pronunciation, 
and  started  him  on  arithmetic.  But  their  intercourse 
was  not  all  devoted  to  elementary  study.  He  had  seen 
too  much  of  life,  and  his  mind  was  too  matured,  to  be 
wholly  content  with  fractions,  cube  root,  parsing,  and 
analysis ;  and  there  were  times  when  their  conversation 
turned  on  other  themes  —  the  last  poetry  he  had  read,  the 
latest  poet  she  had  studied.  And  when  she  read  aloud  to 
him  her  favorite  passages,  he  ascended  to  the  topmost 
heaven  of  delight.  Never,  in  all  the  women  he  had  heard 
speak,  had  he  heard  a  voice  like  hers.  The  least  sound  of 
it  was  a  stimulus  to  his  love,  and  he  thrilled  and  throbbed 
with  every  word  she  uttered.  It  was  the  quality  of  it, 
the  repose,  and  the  musical  modulation  —  the  soft,  rich, 
indefinable  product  of  culture  and  a  gentle  soul.  As  he 
listened  to  her,  there  rang  in  the  ears  of  his  memory  the 
harsh  cries  of  barbarian  women  and  of  hags,  and,  in 
lesser  degrees  of  harshness,  the  strident  voices  of  work 
ing  women  and  of  the  girls  of  his  own  class.  Then 
the  chemistry  of  vision  would  begin  to  work,  and  they 
would  troop  in  review  across  his  mind,  each,  by  con 
trast,  multiplying  Ruth's  glories.  Then,  too,  his  bliss 
was  heightened  by  the  knowledge  that  her  mind  was  com 
prehending  what  she  read  and  was  quivering  with  appre 
ciation  of  the  beauty  of  the  written  thought.  She  read  to 
him  much  from  "  The  Princess,"  and  often  he  saw  her  eyes 
swimming  with  tears,  so  finely  was  her  aesthetic  nature 
strung.  At  such  moments  her  own  emotions  elevated 
him  till  he  was  as  a  god,  and,  as  he  gazed  at  her  and 


68  MARTIN  EDEN 

listened,  lie  seemed  gazing  on  the  face  of  life  and  reading 
its  deepest  secrets.  And  then,  becoming  aware  of  the 
heights  of  exquisite  sensibility  he  attained,  he  decided 
that  this  was  love  and  that  love  was  the  greatest  thing 
in  the  world.  And  in  review  would  pass  along  the 
corridors  of  memory  all  previous  thrills  and  burnings 
he  had  known,  —  the  drunkenness  of  wine,  the  caresses  of 
women,  the  rough  play  and  give  and  take  of  physical 
contests,  —  and  they  seemed  trivial  and  mean  compared 
with  this  sublime  ardor  he  now  enjoyed. 

The  situation  was  obscured  to  Ruth.  She  had  never 
had  any  experiences  of  the  heart.  Her  only  experiences 
in  such  matters  were  of  the  books,  where  the  facts  of 
ordinary  day  were  translated  by  fancy  into  a  fairy  realm 
of  unreality;  and  she  little  knew  that  this  rough  sailor 
was  creeping  into  her  heart  and  storing  there  pent  forces 
that  would  some  day  burst  forth  and  surge  through  her 
in  waves  of  fire.  She  did  not  know  the  actual  fire  of  love. 
Her  knowledge  of  love  was  purely  theoretical,  and  she 
conceived  of  it  as  lambent  flame,  gentle  as  the  fall  of  dew 
or  the  ripple  of  quiet  water,  and  cool  as  the  velvet-dark 
of  summer  nights.  Her  idea  of  love  was  more  that  of 
placid  affection,  serving  the  loved  one  softly  in  an  at 
mosphere,  flower-scented  and  dim-lighted,  of  ethereal  calm. 
She  did  not  dream  of  the  volcanic  convulsions  of  love,  its 
scorching  heat  and  sterile  wastes  of  parched  ashes.  She 
knew  neither  her  own  potencies,  nor  the  potencies  of  the 
world;  and  the  deeps  of  life  were  to  her  seas  of  illusion. 
The  conjugal  affection  of  her  father  and  mother  consti 
tuted  her  ideal  of  love-affinity,  and  she  looked  forward 
some  day  to  emerging,  without  shock  or  friction,  into  that 
same  quiet  sweetness  of  existence  with  a  loved  one. 

So  it  was  that  she  looked  upon  Martin  Eden  as  a 
novelty,  a  strange  individual,  and  she  identified  with 
novelty  and  strangeness  the  effects  he  produced  upon  her. 
It  was  only  natural.  In  similar  ways  she  had  experienced 
unusual  feelings  when  she  looked  at  wild  animals  in  the 
menagerie,  or  when  she  witnessed  a  storm  of  wind,  or 
shuddered  at  the  bright-ribbed  lightning.  There  was 


MARTIN  EDEN  69 

something  cosmic  in  such  things,  and  there  was  something 
cosmic  in  him.  He  came  to  her  breathing  of  large  airs 
and  great  spaces.  The  blaze  of  tropic  suns  was  in  his 
face,  and  in  his  swelling,  resilient  muscles  was  the  pri 
mordial  vigor  of  life.  He  was  marred  and  scarred  by  that 
mysterious  world  of  rough  men  and  rougher  deeds,  the 
outposts  of  which  began  beyond  her  horizon.  He  was 
untamed,  wild,  and  in  secret  ways  her  vanity  was  touched 
by  the  fact  that  he  came  so  mildly  to  her  hand.  Likewise 
she  was  stirred  by  the  common  impulse  to  tame  the  wild 
thing.  It  was  an  unconscious  impulse,  and  farthest  from 
her  thoughts  that  her  desire  was  to  re-thumb  the  clay  of 
him  into  a  likeness  of  her  father's  image,  which  image  she 
believed  to  be  the  finest  in  the  world.  Nor  was  there  any 
way,  out  of  her  inexperience,  for  her  to  know  that  the 
cosmic  feel  she  caught  of  him  was  that  most  cosmic  of 
things,  love,  which  with  equal  power  drew  men  and  women 
together  across  the  world,  compelled  stags  to  kill  each 
other  in  the  rutting  season,  and  drove  even  the  elements 
irresistibly  to  unite. 

His  swift  development  was  a  source  of  surprise  and 
interest.  She  detected  unguessed  finenesses  in  him  that 
seemed  to  bud,  day  by  day,  like  flowers  in  congenial  soil. 
She  read  Browning  aloud  to  him,  and  was  often  puzzled 
by  the  strange  interpretations  he  gave  to  mooted  passages. 
It  was  beyond  her  to  realize  that,  out  of  his  experience  of 
men  and  women  and  life,  his  interpretations  were  far  more 
frequently  correct  than  hers.  His  conceptions  seemed 
naive  to  her,  though  she  was  often  fired  by  his  daring 
flights  of  comprehension,  whose  orbit-path  was  so  wide 
among  the  stars  that  she  could  not  follow  and  could  only 
sit  and  thrill  to  the  impact  of  unguessed  power.  Then 
she  played  to  him  —  no  longer  at  him  —  and  probed  him 
with  music  that  sank  to  depths  beyond  her  plumb-line. 
His  nature  opened  to  music  as  a  flower  to  the  sun,  and  the 
transition  was  quick  from  his  working-class  rag-time  and 
jingles  to  her  classical  display  pieces  that  she  knew  nearly 
by  heart.  Yet  he  betrayed  a  democratic  fondness  for 
Wagner,  and  the  "  Tannhauser  "  overture,  when  she  had 


70  MARTIN  EDEN 

given  him  the  clew  to  it,  claimed  him  as  nothing  else  she 
played.  In  an  immediate  way  it  personified  his  life.  All 
his  past  was  the  Venusburg  motif,  while  her  he  identified 
somehow  with  the  Pilgrim's  Chorus  motif;  and  from  the 
exalted  state  this  elevated  him  to,  he  swept  onward  and 
upward  into  that  vast  shadow-realm  of  spirit-groping, 
where  good  and  evil  war  eternally. 

Sometimes  he  questioned,  and  induced  in  her  mind 
temporary  doubts  as  to  the  correctness  of  her  own  defini 
tions  and  conceptions  of  music.  But  her  singing  he  did 
not  question.  It  was  too  wholly  her,  and  he  sat  always 
amazed  at  the  divine  melody  of  her  pure  soprano  voice. 
And  he  could  not  help  but  contrast  it  with  the  weak  pip 
ings  and  shrill  quaverings  of  factory  girls,  ill-nourished 
and  untrained,  and  with  the  raucous  shriekings  from  gin- 
cracked  throats  of  the  women  of  the  seaport  towns.  She 
enjoyed  singing  and  playing  to  him.  In  truth,  it  was  the 
first  time  she  had  ever  had  a  human  soul  to  play  with, 
and  the  plastic  clay  of  him  was  a  delight  to  mould;  for 
she  thought  she  was  moulding  it,  and  her  intentions  were 
good.  Besides,  it  was  pleasant  to  be  with  him.  He  did 
not  repel  her.  That  first  repulsion  had  been  really  a  fear 
of  her  undiscovered  self,  and  the  fear  had  gone  to  sleep. 
Though  she  did  not  know  it,  she  had  a  feeling  in  him  of 
proprietary  right.  Also,  he  had  a  tonic  effect  upon  her. 
She  was  studying  hard  at  the  university,  and  it  seemed 
to  strengthen  her  to  emerge  from  the  dusty  books  and 
have  the  fresh  sea-breeze  of  his  personality  blow  upon  her. 
Strength!  Strength  was  what  she  needed,  and  he  gave  it 
to  her  in  generous  measure.  To  come  into  the  same  room 
with  him,  or  to  meet  him  at  the  door,  was  to  take  heart  of 
life.  And  when  he  had  gone,  she  would  return  to  her 
books  with  a  keener  zest  and  fresh  store  of  energy. 

She  knew  her  Browning,  but  it  had  never  sunk  into 
her  that  it  was  an  awkward  thing  to  play  with  souls.  As 
her  interest  in  Martin  increased,  the  remodelling  of  his  life 
became  a  passion  with  her. 

"There  is  Mr.  Butler,"  she  said  one  afternoon,  when 
grammar  and  arithmetic  and  poetry  had  been  put  aside. 


MARTIN  EDEN  71 

"He  had  comparatively  no  advantages  at  first.  His 
father  had  been  a  bank  cashier,  but  he  lingered  for  years, 
dying  of  consumption  in  Arizona,  so  that  when  he  was 
dead,  Mr.  Butler,  Charles  Butler  he  was  called,  found 
himself  alone  in  the  world.  His  father  had  come  from 
Australia,  you  know,  and  so  he  had  no  relatives  in  Cali 
fornia.  He  went  to  work  in  a  printing-office, — I  have 
heard  him  tell  of  it  many  times,  —  and  he  got  three  dollars 
a  week,  at  first.  His  income  to-day  is  at  least  thirty 
thousand  a  year.  How  did  he  do  it  ?  He  was  honest, 
and  faithful,  and  industrious,  and  economical.  He  denied 
himself  the  enjoyments  that  most  boys  indulge  in.  He 
made  it  a  point  to  save  so  much  every  week,  no  matter 
what  he  had  to  do  without  in  order  to  save  it.  Of  course, 
he  was  soon  earning  more  than  three  dollars  a  week,  and 
as  his  wages  increased  he  saved  more  and  more. 

"  He  worked  in  the  daytime,  and  at  night  he  went  to 
night  school.  He  had  his  eyes  fixed  always  on  the  future. 
Later  on  he  went  to  night  high  school.  When  he  was 
only  seventeen,  he  was  earning  excellent  wages  at  setting 
type,  but  he  was  ambitious.  He  wanted  a  career,  not  a 
livelihood,  and  he  was  content  to  make  immediate  sacri 
fices  for  his  ultimate  again.  He  decided  upon  the  law, 
and  he  entered  father's  office  as  an  office  boy  —  think  of 
that! — and  got  only  four  dollars  a  week,.  But  he  had 
learned  how  to  be  economical,  and  out  of  that  four  dollars 
he  went  on  saving  money." 

She  paused  for  breath,  and  to  note  how  Martin  was  re 
ceiving  it.  His  face  was  lighted  up  with  interest  in  the 
youthful  struggles  of  Mr.  Butler;  but  there  was  a  frown 
upon  his  face  as  well. 

"  I'd  say  they  was  pretty  hard  lines  for  a  young  fellow," 
he  remarked.  "  Four  dollars  a  week!  How  could  he  live 
on  it  ?  You  can  bet  he  didn't  have  any  frills.  Why,  I  pay 
five  dollars  a  week  for  board  now,  an'  there's  nothin' 
excitin'  about  it,  you  can  lay  to  that.  He  must  have  lived 
like  a  dog.  The  food  he  ate  —  " 

"He  cooked  for  himself,"  she  interrupted,  "on  a  little 
kerosene  stove." 


72  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  The  food  he  ate  must  have  been  worse  than  what  a 
sailor  gets  on  the  worst-feedin'  deep-water  ships,  than 
which  there  ain't  much  that  can  be  possibly  worse." 

"  But  think  of  him  now!  "  she  cried  enthusiastically. 
"Think  of  what  his  income  affords  him.  His  early 
denials  are  paid  for  a  thousand-fold." 

Martin  looked  at  her  sharply. 

"There's  one  thing  I'll  bet  you,"  he  said,  "and  it  is 
that  Mr.  Butler  is  nothin'  gay-hearted  now  in  his  fat  days. 
He  fed  himself  like  that  for  years  an'  years,  on  a  boy's 
stomach,  an'  I  bet  his  stomach's  none  too  good  now  for 
it." 

Her  eyes  dropped  before  his  searching  gaze. 

"  I'll  bet  he's  got  dyspepsia  right  now ! "  Martin  chal 
lenged. 

"  Yes,  he  has,"  she  confessed ;  "  but  —  " 

"  An'  I  bet,"  Martin  dashed  on,  "  that  he's  solemn  an' 
serious  as  an  old  owl,  an'  doesn't  care  a  rap  for  a  good 
time,  for  all  his  thirty  thousand  a  year.  An'  I'll  bet  he's 
not  particularly  joyful  at  seein'  others  have  a  good  time. 
Ain't  I  right?" 

She  nodded  her  head  in  agreement,  and  hastened  to  ex 
plain  :  — 

"But  he  is  not  that  type  of  man.  By  nature  he  is  sober 
and  serious.  He  always  was  that." 

"  You  can  bet  he  was,"  Martin  proclaimed.  "  Three 
dollars  a  week,  an'  four  dollars  a  week,  an'  a  young  boy 
cookin'  for  himself  on  an  oil-burner  an'  layin'  up  money, 
workin'  all  day  an'  study  in'  all  night,  just  workin'  an' 
never  playin',  never  havin'  a  good  time,  an'  never  learnin' 
how  to  have  a  good  time  —  of  course  his  thirty  thousand 
came  along  too  late." 

His  sympathetic  imagination  was  flashing  upon  his  inner 
sight  all  the  thousands  of  details  of  the  boy's  existence 
and  of  his  narrow  spiritual  development  into  a  thirty- 
thousand-dollar-a-year  man.  With  the  swiftness  and  wide- 
reaching  of  multitudinous  thought  Charles  Butler's  whole 
life  was  telescoped  upon  his  vision. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  added,  "  I  feel  sorry  for  Mr.  Butler, 


MARTIN  EDEN  73 

He  was  too  young  to  know  better,  but  he  robbed  himself 
of  life  for  the  sake  of  thirty  thousand  a  year  that's  clean 
wasted  upon  him.  Why,  thirty  thousand,  lump  sum, 
wouldn't  buy  for  him  right  now  what  ten  cents  he  was 
layin'  up  would  have  bought  him,  when  he  was  a  kid,  in 
the  way  of  candy  an'  peanuts  or  a  seat  in  nigger  heaven." 

It  was  just  such  uniqueness  of  points  of  view  that  startled 
Ruth.  Not  only  were  they  new  to  her,  and  contrary  to 
her  own  beliefs,  but  she  always  felt  in  them  germs  of  truth 
that  threatened  to  unseat  or  modify  her  own  convictions. 
Had  she  been  fourteen  instead  of  twenty-four,  she  might 
have  been  changed  by  them;  but  she  was  twenty-four, 
conservative  by  nature  and  upbringing,  and  already  crys 
tallized  into  the  cranny  of  life  where  she  had  been  born 
and  formed.  It  was  true,  his  bizarre  judgments  troubled 
her  in  the  moments  they  were  uttered,  but  she  ascribed 
them  to  his  novelty  of  type  and  strangeness  of  living,  and 
they  were  soon  forgotten.  Nevertheless,  while  she  dis 
approved  of  them,  the  strength  of  their  utterance,  and  the 
flashing  of  eyes  and  earnestness  of  face  that  accompanied 
them,  always  thrilled  her  and  drew  her  toward  him.  She 
would  never  have  guessed  that  this  man  who  had  come  from 
beyond  her  horizon,  was,  in  such  moments,  flashing  on  be 
yond  her  horizon  with  wider  and  deeper  concepts.  Her 
own  limits  were  the  limits  of  her  horizon;  but  limited 
minds  can  recognize  limitations  only  in  others.  And  so 
she  felt  that  her  outlook  was  very  wide  indeed,  and  that 
where  his  conflicted  with  hers  marked  his  limitations ;  and 
she  dreamed  of  helping  him  to  see  as  she  saw,  of  widening 
his  horizon  until  it  was  identified  with  hers. 

"  But  I  have  not  finished  my  story,"  she  said.  "  He 
worked,  so  father  says,  as  no  other  office  boy  he  ever  had. 
Mr.  Butler  was  always  eager  to  work.  He  never  was  late, 
and  he  was  usually  at  the  office  a  few  minutes  before  his 
regular  time.  And  yet  he  saved  his  time.  Every  spare 
moment  was  devoted  to  study.  He  studied  book-keeping 
and  type-writing,  and  he  paid  for  lessons  in  shorthand  by 
dictating  at  night  to  a  court  reporter  who  needed  practice. 
He  quickly  became  a  clerk,  and  he  made  himself  invaluable. 


74  MARTIN  EDEN 

Father  appreciated  him  and  saw  that  he  was  bound  to 
rise.  It  was  on  father's  suggestion  that  he  went  to  law 
college.  He  became  a  lawyer,  and  hardly  was  he  back  in 
the  office  when  father  took  him  in  as  junior  partner.  He 
is  a  great  man.  He  refused  the  United  States  Senate 
several  times,  and  father  says  he  could  become  a  justice  of 
the  Supreme  Court  any  time  a  vacancy  occurs,  if  he  wants 
to.  Such  a  life  is  an  inspiration  to  all  of  us.  It  shows 
us  that  a  man  with  will  may  rise  superior  to  his  environ 
ment." 

"  He  is  a  great  man,"  Martin  said  sincerely. 

But  it  seemed  to  him  there  was  something  in  the  recital 
that  jarred  upon  his  sense  of  beauty  and  life.  He  could 
not  find  an  adequate  motive  in  Mr.  Butler's  life  of  pinching 
and  privation.  Had  he  done  it  for  love  of  a  woman,  or 
for  attainment  of  beauty,  Martin  would  have  understood. 
God's  own  mad  lover  should  do  anything  for  the  kiss,  but 
not  for  thirty  thousand  dollars  a  year.  He  was  dissatis 
fied  with  Mr.  Butler's  career.  There  was  something  paltry 
about  it,  after  all.  Thirty  thousand  a  year  was  all  right,  but 
dyspepsia  and  inability  to  be  humanly  happy  robbed  such 
princely  income  of  all  its  value. 

Much  of  this  he  strove  to  express  to  Ruth,  and  shocked 
her  and  made  it  clear  that  more  remodelling  was  necessary. 
Hers  was  that  common  insularity  of  mind  that  makes  hu 
man  creatures  believe  that  their  color,  creed,  and  politics 
are  best  and  right  and  that  other  human  creatures  scat 
tered  over  the  world  are  less  fortunately  placed  than  they. 
It  was  the  same  insularity  of  mind  that  made  the  ancient 
Jew  thank  God  he  was  not  born  a  woman,  and  sent  the  mod 
ern  missionary  god-substituting  to  the  ends  of  the  earth; 
and  it  made  Ruth  desire  to  shape  this  man  from  other 
crannies  of  life  into  the  likeness  of  the  men  who  lived  in 
her  particular  cranny  of  life. 


CHAPTER  IX 

BACK  from  sea  Martin  Eden  came,  homing  for  California 
with  a  lover's  desire.  His  store  of  money  exhausted,  he 
had  shipped  before  the  mast  on  the  treasure-hunting 
schooner ;  and  the  Solomon  Islands,  after  eight  months  of 
failure  to  find  treasure,  had  witnessed  the  breaking  up  of 
the  expedition.  The  men  had  been  paid  off  in  Australia, 
and  Martin  had  immediately  shipped  on  a  deep-water 
vessel  for  San  Francisco.  Not  alone  had  those  eight 
months  earned  him  enough  money  to  stay  on  land  for 
many  weeks,  but  they  had  enabled  him  to  do  a  great  deal 
of  studying  and  reading. 

His  was  the  student's  mind,  and  behind  his  ability  to 
learn  was  the  indomitability  of  his  nature  and  his  love  for 
Ruth.  The  grammar  he  had  taken  along  he  went  through 
again  and  again  until  his  unjaded  brain  had  mastered  it. 
He  noticed  the  bad  grammar  used  by  his  shipmates,  and 
made  a  point  of  mentally  correcting  and  reconstructing 
their  crudities  of  speech.  To  his  great  joy  he  discovered 
that  his  ear  was  becoming  sensitive  and  that  he  was  de 
veloping  grammatical  nerves.  A  double  negative  jarred 
him  like  a  discord,  and  often,  from  lack  of  practice,  it 
was  from  his  own  lips  that  the  jar  came.  His  tongue  re 
fused  to  learn  new  tricks  in  a  day. 

After  he  had  been  through  the  grammar  repeatedly,  he 
took  up  the  dictionary  and  added  twenty  words  a  day  to 
his  vocabulary.  He  found  that  this  was  no  light  task, 
and  at  wheel  or  lookout  he  steadily  went  over  and  over 
his  lengthening  list  of  pronunciations  and  definitions,  vrhile 
he  invariably  memorized  himself  to  sleep.  "Never  did 
anything,"  "  if  I  were,"  and  "those  things,"  were  phrases, 
with  many  variations,  that  he  repeated  under  his  breath 
in  order  to  accustom  his  tongue  to  the  language  spoken 

75 


76  MARTIN  EDEN 

by  Ruth.  "And"  and  "ing,"  with  the  "d"and  "g" 
pronounced  emphatically,  he  went  over  thousands  of  times ; 
and  to  his  surprise  he  noticed  that  he  was  beginning  to 
speak  cleaner  and  more  correct  English  than  the  officers 
themselves  and  the  gentleman-adventurers  in  the  cabin 
who  had  financed  the  expedition. 

The  captain  was  a  fishy -eyed  Norwegian  who  somehow 
had  fallen  into  possession  of  a  complete  Shakespeare,  which 
he  never  read,  and  Martin  had  washed  his  clothes  for  him 
and  in  return  been  permitted  access  to  the  precious 
volumes.  For  a  time,  so  steeped  was  he  in  the  plays  and 
in  the  many  favorite  passages  that  impressed  themselves 
almost  without  effort  on  his  brain,  that  all  the  world 
seemed  to  shape  itself  into  forms  of  Elizabethan  tragedy 
or  comedy  and  his  very  thoughts  were  in  blank  verse.  It 
trained  his  ear  and  gave  him  a  fine  appreciation  for  noble 
English;  withal  it  introduced  into  his  mind  much  that  was 
archaic  and  obsolete. 

The  eight  months  had  been  well  spent,  and,  in  addition 
to  what  he  had  learned  of  right  speaking  and  high  think 
ing,  he  had  learned  much  of  himself.  Along  with  his 
humbleness  because  he  knew  so  little,  there  arose  a  con 
viction  of  power.  He  felt  a  sharp  gradation  between 
himself  and  his  shipmates,  and  was  wise  enough  to  realize 
that  the  difference  lay  in  potentiality  rather  than  achiev- 
ment.  What  he  could  do,  they  could  do  ;  but  within  him 
he  felt  a  confused  ferment  working  that  told  him  there 
was  more  in  him  than  he  had  done.  He  was  tortured  by 
the  exquisite  beauty  of  the  world,  and  wished  that  Ruth 
were  there  to  share  it  with  him.  He  decided  that  he 
would  describe  to  her  many  of  the  bits  of  South  Sea 
beauty.  The  creative  spirit  in  him  flamed  up  at  the 
thought  and  urged  that  he  recreate  this  beauty  for  a  wider 
audience  than  Ruth.  And  then,  in  splendor  and  glory, 
came  the  great  idea.  He  would  write.  He  would  be 
one  of  the  eyes  through  which  the  world  saw,  one  of  the 
ears  through  which  it  heard,  one  of  the  hearts  through 
which  it  felt.  He  would  write  —  everything  —  poetry 
and  prose,  fiction  and  description,  and  plays  like  Shake- 


MARTIN  EDEN  77 

speare.  There  was  career  and  the  way  to  win  to  Ruth. 
The  men  of  literature  were  the  world's  giants,  and  he 
conceived  them  to  be  far  finer  than  the  Mr.  Butlers  who 
earned  thirty  thousand  a  year  and  could  be  Supreme 
Court  justices  if  they  wanted  to. 

Once  the  idea  had  germinated,  it  mastered  him,  and  the 
return  voyage  to  San  Francisco  was  like  a  dream.  He 
was  drunken  with  unguessed  power  and  felt  that  he  could 
do  anything.  In  the  midst  of  the  great  and  lonely  sea  he 
gained  perspective.  Clearly,  and  for  the  first  time,  he 
saw  Ruth  and  her  world.  It  was  all  visualized  in  his 
mind  as  a  concrete  thing  which  he  could  take  up  in  his 
two  hands  and  turn  around  and  about  and  examine.  There 
was  much  that  was  dim  and  nebulous  in  that  world,  but 
he  saw  it  as  a  whole  and  not  in  detail,  and  he  saw,  also, 
the  way  to  master  it.  To  write !  The  thought  was  fire 
in  him.  He  would  begin  as  soon  as  he  got  back.  The 
first  thing  he  would  do  would  be  to  describe  the  voyage 
of  the  treasure-hunters.  He  would  sell  it  to  some  San 
Francisco  newspaper.  He  would  not  tell  Ruth  anything 
about  it,  and  she  would  be  surprised  and  pleased  when  she- 
saw  his  name  in  print.  While  he  wrote,  he  could  go  on 
studying.  There  were  twenty-four  hours  in  each  day. 
He  was  invincible.  He  knew  how  to  work,  and  the  citadels 
would  go  down  before  him.  He  would  not  have  to  go  to 
sea  again — as  a  sailor;  and  for  the  instant  he  caught  a 
vision  of  a  steam  yacht.  There  were  other  writers  who 
possessed  steam  yachts.  Of  course,  he  cautioned  himself, 
it  would  be  slow  succeeding  at  first,  and  for  a  time  he 
would  be  content  to  earn  enough  money  by  his  writing  to 
enable  him  to  go  on  studying.  And  then,  after  some  time, 
—  a  very  indeterminate  time,  —  when  he  had  learned  and 
prepared  himself,  he  would  write  the  great  things  and  his 
name  would  be  on  all  men's  lips.  But  greater  than  that, 
infinitely  greater  and  greatest  of  all,  he  would  have  proved 
himself  worthy  of  Ruth.  Fame  was  all  very  well,  but  it 
was  for  Ruth  that  his  splendid  dream  arose.  He  was  not 
a  fame-monger,  but  merely  one  of  God's  mad  lovers. 

Arrived  in  Oakland,  with  his  snug  pay-day  in  his  pocket, 


78  MARTIN  EDEN 

he  took  up  his  old  room  at  Bernard  Higginbotham's  and 
set  to  work.  He  did  not  even  let  Ruth  know  he  was  back. 
He  would  go  and  see  her  when  he  finished  the  article  on 
the  treasure-hunters.  It  was  not  so  difficult  to  abstain 
from  seeing  her,  because  of  the  violent  heat  of  creative 
fever  that  burned  in  him.  Besides,  the  very  article  he 
was  writing  would  bring  her  nearer  to  him.  He  did  not 
know  how  long  an  article  he  should  write,  but  he  counted 
the  words  in  a  double-page  article  in  the  Sunday  supple 
ment  of  the  San  Francisco  Examiner,  and  guided  himself  by 
that.  Three  days,  at  white  heat,  completed  his  narrative ; 
but  when  he  had  copied  it  carefully,  in  a  large  scrawl  that 
was  easy  to  read,  he  learned  from  a  rhetoric  he  picked  up  in 
the  library  that  there  were  such  things  as  paragraphs  and 
quotation  marks.  He  had  never  thought  of  such  things 
before;  and  he  promptly  set  to  work  writing  the  article 
over,  referring  continually  to  the  pages  of  the  rhetoric 
and  learning  more  in  a  day  about  composition  than  the 
average  schoolboy  in  a  year.  When  he  had  copied  the 
article  a  second  time  and  rolled  it  up  carefully,  he  read  in  a 
newspaper  an  item  on  hints  to  beginners,  and  discovered 
the  iron  law  that  manuscripts  should  never  be  rolled  and 
that  they  should  be  written  on  one  side  of  the  paper.  He 
had  violated  the  law  on  both  counts.  Also,  he  learned 
from  the  item  that  first-class  papers  paid  a  minimum  of 
ten  dollars  a  column.  So,  while  he  copied  the  manuscript 
a  third  time,  he  consoled  himself  by  multiplying  ten 
columns  by  ten  dollars.  The  product  was  always  the 
same,  one  hundred  dollars,  and  he  decided  that  that  was 
better  than  seafaring.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  his  blunders, 
he  would  have  finished  the  article  in  three  days.  One 
hundred  dollars  in  three  days!  It  would  have  taken 
him  three  months  and  longer  on  the  sea  to  earn  a  similar 
amount.  A  man  was  a  fool  to  go  to  sea  when  he  could 
write,  he  concluded,  though  the  money  in  itself  meant 
nothing  to  him.  Its  value  was  in  the  liberty  it  would  get 
him,  the  presentable  garments  it  would  buy  him,  all  of 
which  would  bring  him  nearer,  swiftly  nearer,  to  the 
slender,  pale  girl  who  had  turned  his  life  back  upon  itself 
and  given  him  inspiration. 


MARTIN  EDEN  79 

He  mailed  the  manuscript  in  a  flat  envelope,  and 
addressed  it  to  the  editor  of  the  San  Francisco  Exam 
iner.  He  had  an  idea  that  anything  accepted  by  a  paper 
was  publishjd  immediately,  and  as  he  had  sent  the  man 
uscript  in  on  Friday  he  expected  it  to  come  out  on  the 
following  Sunday.  He  conceived  that  it  would  be  fine 
to  let  that  event  apprise  Ruth  of  his  return.  Then,  Sun 
day  afternoon,  he  would  call  and  see  her.  In  the  mean 
time  he  was  occupied  by  another  idea,  which  he  prided 
himself  upon  as  being  a  particularly  sane,  careful,  and 
modest  idea.  He  would  write  an  adventure  story  for 
boys  and  sell  it  to  The  Youth's  Companion.  He  went 
to  the  free  reading-room  and  looked  through  the  files  of 
The  Youths  Companion.  Serial  stories,  he  found,  were 
usually  published  in  that  weekly  in  five  instalments  of 
about  three  thousand  words  each.  He  discovered  several 
serials  that  ran  to  seven  instalments,  and  decided  to  write 
one  of  that  length. 

He  had  been  on  a  whaling  voyage  in  the  Arctic,  once — 
a  voyage  that  was  to  have  been  for  three  years  and  which 
had  terminated  in  shipwreck  at  the  end  of  six  months. 
While  his  imagination  was  fanciful,  even  fantastic  at 
times,  he  had  a  basic  love  of  reality  that  compelled  him 
to  write  about  the  things  he  knew.  He  knew  whaling,  and 
out  of  the  real  materials  of  his  knowledge  he  proceeded  to 
manufacture  the  fictitious  adventures  of  the  two  boys  he 
intended  to  use  as  joint  heroes.  It  was  easy  work,  he 
decided  on  Saturday  evening.  He  had  completed  on  that 
day  the  first  instalment  of  three  thousand  words — much 
to  the  amusement  of  Jim,  and  to  the  open  derision  of  Mr. 
Higginbotham,  who  sneered  throughout  meal-time  at  the 
"litery"  person  they  had  discovered  in  the  family. 

Martin  contented  himself  by  picturing  his  brother-in- 
law's  surprise  on  Sunday  morning  when  he  opened  his 
Examiner  and  saw  the  article  on  the  treasure-hunters. 
Early  that  morning  he  was  out  himself  to  the  front  door, 
nervously  racing  through  the  many-sheeted  newspaper. 
He  went  through  it  a  second  time,  very  carefully,  then 
folded  it  up  and  left  it  where  he  had  found  it.  He  was 


80  MARTIN  EDEN 

glad  he  had  not  told  any  one  about  his  article.  On 
second  thought  he  concluded  that  he  had  been  wrong 
about  the  speed  with  which  things  found  their  way  into 
newspaper  columns.  Besides,  there  had  no*  been  any 
news  value  in  his  article,  and  most  likely  the  editor  would 
write  to  him  about  it  first. 

After  breakfast  he  went  on  with  his  serial.  The  words 
flowed  from  his  pen,  though  he  broke  off  from  the  writing 
frequently  to  look  up  definitions  in  the  dictionary  or 
to  refer  to  the  rhetoric.  He  often  read  or  re-read  a 
chapter  at  a  time,  during  such  pauses;  and  he  consoled 
himself  that  while  he  was  not  writing  the  great  things 
he  felt  to  be  in  him,  he  was  learning  composition,  at  any 
rate,  and  training  himself  to  shape  up  and  express  his 
thoughts.  He  toiled  on  till  dark,  when  he  went  out  to 
the  reading-room  and  explored  magazines  and  weeklies 
until  the  place  closed  at  ten  o'clock.  This  was  his  pro 
gramme  for  a  week.  Each  day  he  did  three  thousand  words, 
and  each  evening  he  puzzled  his  way  through  the  maga 
zines,  taking  note  of  the  stories,  articles,  and  poems  that 
editors  saw  fit  to  publish.  One  thing  was  certain :  What 
these  multitudinous  writers  did  he  could  do,  and  only 
give  him  time  and  he  would  do  what  they  could  not  do. 
He  was  cheered  to  read  in  Book  News,  in  a  paragraph 
on  the  payment  of  magazine  writers,  riot  that  Rudyard 
Kipling  received  a  dollar  per  word,  but  that  the  minimum 
rate  paid  by  first-class  magazines  was  two  cents  a  word. 
The  Youth's  Companion  was  certainly  first  class,  and  at 
that  rate  the  three  thousand  words  he  had  written  that 
day  would  bring  him  sixty  dollars — two  months'  wages 
on  the  sea! 

On  Friday  night  he  finished  the  serial,  twenty-one  thou 
sand  words  long.  At  two  cents  a  word,  he  calculated, 
that  would  bring  him  four  hundred  and  twenty  dollars. 
Not  a  bad  week's  work.  It  was  more  money  than  he  had 
ever  possessed  at  one  time.  He  did  not  know  how  he 
could  spend  it  all.  He  had  tapped  a  gold  mine.  Where 
this  came  from  he  could  always  get  more.  He  planned 
to  buy  some  more  clothes,  to  subscribe  to  many  magazines, 


MARTIN  EDEN  81 

and  to  buy  dozens  of  reference  books  that  at  present  he 
was  compelled  to  go  to  the  library  to  consult.  And  still 
there  was  a  large  portion  of  the  four  hundred  and  twenty 
dollars  unspent.  This  worried  him  until  the  thought 
came  to  him  of  hiring  a  servant  for  Gertrude  and  of 
buying  a  bicycle  for  Marion. 

He  mailed  the  bulky  manuscript  to  The  Youth's  Com 
panion,  and  on  Saturday  afternoon,  after  having  planned 
an  article  on  pearl-diving,  he  went  to  see  Ruth.  He  had 
telephoned,  and  she  went  herself  fr  >  greet  him  at  the  door. 
The  old  familiar  blaze  of  health  rushed  out  from  him  and 
struck  her  like  a  blow.  It  seemed  to  enter  into  her  body 
and  course  through  her  veins  in  a  liquid  glow,  and  to  set 
her  quivering  with  its  imparted  strength.  He  flushed 
warmly  as  he  took  her  hand  and  looked  into  her  blue 
eyes,  but  the  fresh  bronze  of  eight  months  of  sun  hid  the 
flush,  though  it  did  not  protect  the  neck  from  the  gnaw 
ing  chafe  of  the  stiff  collar.  She  noted  the  red  line  of  it 
with  amusement  which  quickly  vanished  as  she  glanced 
at  his  clothes.  They  really  fitted  him,  —  it  was  his  first 
made-to-order  suit, —  and  he  seemed  slimmer  and  better 
modelled.  In  addition,  his  cloth  cap  had  been  replaced 
by  a  soft  hat,  which  she  commanded  him  to  put  on  and 
then  complimented  him  on  his  appearance.  She  did  not 
remember  when  she  had  felt  so  happy.  This  change  in 
him  was  her  handiwork,  and  she  was  proud  of  it  and  fired 
with  ambition  further  to  help  him. 

But  the  most  radical  change  of  all,  and  the  one  that 
pleased  her  most,  was  the  change  in  his  speech.  Not  only 
did  he  speak  more  correctly,  but  he  spoke  more  easily,  and 
there  were  many  new  words  in  his  vocabulary.  When  he 
grew  excited  or  enthusiastic,  however,  he  dropped  back 
into  the  old  slurring  and  the  dropping  of  final  consonants. 
Also,  there  was  an  awkward  hesitancy,  at  times,  as  he  es 
sayed  the  new  words  he  had  learned.  On  the  other  hand, 
along  with  his  ease  of  expression,  he  displayed  a  lightness 
and  facetiousness  of  thought  that  delighted  her.  It  was 
his  old  spirit  of  humor  and  badinage  that  had  made  him  a 
favorite  in  his  own  class,  but  which  he  had  hitherto  been 


82  MARTIN  EDEN 

unable  to  use  in  her  presence  through  lack  of  words  and 
training.  He  was  just  beginning  to  orientate  himself  and 
to  feel  that  he  was  not  wholly  an  intruder.  But  he  was 
very  tentative,  fastidiously  so,  letting  Ruth  set  the  pace  of 
sprightliness  and  fancy,  keeping  up  with  her  but  never 
daring  to  go  beyond  her. 

He  told  her  of  what  he  had  been  doing,  and  of  his  plan 
to  write  for  a  livelihood  and  of  going  on  with  his  studies. 
But  he  was  disappointed  at  her  lack  of  approval.  She  did 
not  think  much  of  his  plan. 

"  You  see,"  she  said  frankly,  "  writing  must  be  a  trade, 
like  anything  else.  Not  that  I  know  anything  about  it,  of 
course.  I  only  bring  common  judgment  to  bear.  You 
couldn't  hope  to  be  a  blacksmith  without  spending  three 
years  at  learning  the  trade  —  or  is  it  five  years !  Now 
writers  are  so  much  better  paid  than  blacksmiths  that  there 
must  be  ever  so  many  more  men  who  would  like  to  write, 
who  —  try  to  write." 

"  But  then,  may  not  I  be  peculiarly  constituted  to  write  ?  " 
he  queried,  secretly  exulting  at  the  language  he  had  used, 
his  swift  imagination  throwing  the  whole  scene  and  atmos 
phere  upon  a  vast  screen  along  with  a  thousand  other 
scenes  from  his  life  —  scenes  that  were  rough  and  raw, 
gross  and  bestial. 

The  whole  composite  vision  was  achieved  with  the  speed 
of  light,  producing  no  pause  in  the  conversation,  nor  in 
terrupting  his  calm  train  of  thought.  On  the  screen  of 
his  imagination  he  saw  himself  and  this  sweet  and  beauti 
ful  girl,  facing  each  other  and  conversing  in  good  English, 
in  a  room  of  books  and  paintings  and  tone  and  culture, 
and  all  illuminated  by  a  bright  light  of  steadfast  brilliance ; 
while  ranged  about  and  fading  away  to  the  remote  edges 
of  the  screen  were  antithetical  scenes,  each  scene  a  picture, 
and  he  the  onlooker,  free  to  look  at  will  upon  what  he 
wished.  He  saw  these  other  scenes  through  drifting  va 
pors  and  swirls  of  sullen  fog  dissolving  before  shafts  of 
red  and  garish  light.  He  saw  cowboys  at  the  bar,  drink 
ing  fierce  whiskey,  the  air  filled  with  obscenity  and  ribald 
language,  and  he  saw  himself  with  them,  drinking  and 


MARTIN  EDEN  83 

cursing  with  the  wildest,  or  sitting  at  table  with  them, 
under  smoking  kerosene  lamps,  while  the  chips  clicked 
and  clattered  and  the  cards  were  dealt  around.  He  saw 
himself,  stripped  to  the  waist,  with  naked  fists,  fighting 
his  great  fight  with  Liverpool  Red  in  the  forecastle  of 
the  Susquehanna ;  and  he  saw  the  bloody  deck  of  the 
John  Rogers,  that  gray  morning  of  attempted  mutiny, 
the  mate  kicking  in  death-throes  on  the  main-hatch,  the 
revolver  in  the  old  man's  hand  spitting  fire  and  smoke, 
the  men  with  passion-wrenched  faces,  of  brutes  screaming 
vile  blasphemies  and  falling  about  him  —  and  then  he  re 
turned  to  the  central  scene,  calm  and  clean  in  the  steadfast 
light,  where  Ruth  sat  and  talked  with  him  amid  books  and 
paintings  ;  and  he  saw  the  grand  piano  upon  which  she 
would  later  play  to  him  ;  and  he  heard  the  echoes  of  his 
own  selected  and  correct  words,  "  But  then,  may  I  not  be 
peculiarly  constituted  to  write  ?  " 

"  But  no  matter  how  peculiarly  constituted  a  man  may 
be  for  blacksmithing,"  she  was  laughing,  "  I  never  heard 
of  one  becoming  a  blacksmith  without  first  serving  his  ap 
prenticeship." 

"  What  would  you  advise  ?  "  he  asked.  "  And  don't  for 
get  that  I  feel  in  me  this  capacity  to  write  —  I  can't  ex 
plain  it ;  I  just  know  that  it  is  in  me." 

44  You  must  get  a  thorough  education,"  was  the  answer, 
"  whether  or  not  you  ultimately  become  a  writer.  This 
education  is  indispensable  for  whatever  career  you  select, 
and  it  must  not  be  slipshod  or  sketchy.  You  should  go  to 
high  school." 

u  Yes  —  "he  began ;  but  she  interrupted  with  an  after 
thought  :  — 

MOf  course,  you  could  go  on  with  your  writing,  too." 

"  I  would  have  to,"  he  said  grimly. 

"  Why  ?  "  She  looked  at  him,  prettily  puzzled,  for  she  did 
not  quite  like  the  persistence  with  which  he  clung  to  his 
notion. 

"  Because,  without  writing  there  wouldn't  be  any 
high  school.  I  must  live  and  buy  books  and  clothes,  you 
know." 


84  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  I'd  forgotten  that,"  she  laughed.  "  Why  weren't  you 
born  with  an  income  ?  " 

"I'd  rather  have  good  health  and  imagination,"  he  an 
swered.  "  I  can  make  good  on  the  income,  but  the  other 
things  have  to  be  made  good  for  — "  He  almost  said  "  you," 
then  amended  his  sentence  to,  "  have  to  be  made  good  for 
one." 

"  Don't  say  '  make  good,' "  she  cried,  sweetly  petulant. 
"  It's  slang,  and  it's  horrid." 

He  flushed,  and  stammered,  "  That's  right,  and  I  only 
wish  you'd  correct  me  every  time." 

"I — I'd  like  to,"  she  said  haltingly.  "You  have 
so  much  in  you  that  is  good  that  I  want  to  see  you  per 
fect." 

He  was  clay  in  her  hands  immediately,  as  passionately 
desirous  of  being  moulded  by  her  as  she  was  desirous  of 
shaping  him  into  the  image  of  her  ideal  of  man.  And 
when  she  pointed  out  the  opportuneness  of  the  time,  that 
the  entrance  examinations  to  high  school  began  on  the  fol 
lowing  Monday,  he  promptly  volunteered  that  he  would 
take  them. 

Then  she  played  and  sang  to  him,  while  he  gazed  with 
hungry  yearning  at  her,  drinking  in  her  loveliness  and 
marvelling  that  there  should  not  be  a  hundred  suitors  lis 
tening  there  and  longing  for  her  as  he  listened  and  longed. 


CHAPTER  X 

HE  stopped  to  dinner  that  evening,  and,  much  to  Ruth's 
satisfaction,  made  a  favorable  impression  on  her  father. 
They  talked  about  the  sea  as  a  career,  a  subject  which 
Martin  had  at  his  finger-ends,  and  Mr.  Morse  remarked 
afterward  that  he  seemed  a  very  clear-headed  young 
man.  In  his  avoidance  of  slang  and  his  search  after  right 
words,  Martin  was  compelled  to  talk  slowly,  which  en 
abled  him  to  find  the  best  thoughts  that  were  in  him.  He 
was  more  at  ease  than  that  first  night  at  dinner,  nearly 
a  year  before,  and  his  shyness  and  modesty  even  com 
mended  him  to  Mrs.  Morse,  who  was  pleased  at  his 
manifest  improvement. 

"  He  is  the  first  man  that  ever  drew  passing  notice  from 
Ruth,"  she  told  her  husband.  "  She  has  been  so  singu 
larly  backward  where  men  are  concerned  that  I  have  been 
worried  greatly." 

Mr.  Morse  looked  at  his  wife  curiously. 

"  You  mean  to  use  this  young  sailor  to  wake  her  up  ?  " 
he  questioned. 

"  I  mean  that  she  is  not  to  die  an  old  maid  if  I  can  help 
it,"  was  the  answer.  "  If  this  young  Eden  can  arouse  her 
interest  in  mankind  in  general,  it  will  be  a  good  thing." 

"  A  very  good  thing,"  he  commented.  "  But  suppose, 
—  and  we  must  suppose,  sometimes,  my  dear,  —  suppose 
he  arouses  her  interest  too  particularly  in  him  ?  " 

"  Impossible,"  Mrs.  Morse  laughed.  "  She  is  three 
years  older  than  he,  and,  besides,  it  is  impossible.  Noth 
ing  will  ever  come  of  it.  Trust  that  to  me." 

And  so  Martin's  role  was  arranged  for  him,  while  he, 
led  on  by  Arthur  and  Norman,  was  meditating  an  ex 
travagance.  They  were  going  out  for  a  ride  into  the 
hills  Sunday  morning  on  their  wheels,  which  did  not 
interest  Martin  until  he  learned  that  Ruth,  too,  rode  a 

85 


86  MARTIN  EDEN 

wheel  and  was  going  along.  He  did  not  ride,  nor  own  a 
wheel,  but  if  Ruth  rode,  it  was  up  to  him  to  begin,  was 
his  decision;  and  when  he  said  good  night,  he  stopped  in 
at  a  cyclery  on  his  way  home  and  spent  forty  dollars  for 
a  wheel.  It  was  more  than  a  month's  hard-earned  wages, 
and  it  reduced  his  stock  of  money  amazingly;  but  when 
he  added  the  hundred  dollars  he  was  to  receive  from 
the  Examiner  to  the  four  hundred  and  twenty  dollars 
that  was  the  least  The  Youth's  Companion  could  pay  him, 
he  felt  that  he  had  reduced  the  perplexity  the  unwonted 
amount  of  money  had  caused  him.  Nor  did  he  mind,  in 
the  course  of  learning  to  ride  the  wheel  home,  the  fact 
that  he  ruined  his  suit  of  clothes.  He  caught  the  tailor 
by  telephone  that  night  from  Mr.  Higginbotham's  store 
and  ordered  another  suit.  Then  he  carried  the  wheel  up 
the  narrow  stairway  that  clung  like  a  fire-escape  to  the 
rear  wall  of  the  building,  and  when  he  had  moved  his  bed 
out  from  the  wall,  found  there  was  just  space  enough  in 
the  small  room  for  himself  and  the  wheel. 

Sunday  he  had  intended  to  devote  to  studying  for  the 
high  school  examination,  but  the  pearl-diving  article  lured 
him  away,  and  he  spent  the  day  in  the  white-hot  fever  of 
re-creating  the  beauty  and  romance  that  burned  in  him. 
The  fact  that  the  Examiner  of  that  morning  had  failed 
to  publish  his  treasure-hunting  article  did  not  dash  his 
spirits.  He  was  at  too  great  a  height  for  that,  and  hav 
ing  been  deaf  to  a  twice-repeated  summons,  he  went 
without  the  heavy  Sunday  dinner  with  which  Mr.  Hig- 
ginbotham  invariably  graced  his  table.  To  Mr.  Higgin- 
botham  such  a  dinner  was  advertisement  of  his  worldly 
achievement  and  prosperity,  and  he  honored  it  by  de 
livering  platitudinous  sermonettes  upon  American  insti 
tutions  and  the  opportunity  said  institutions  gave  to  any 
hard-working  man  to  rise  —  the  rise,  in  his  case,  which  he 
pointed  out  unfailingly,  being  from  a  grocer's  clerk  to  the 
ownership  of  Higginbotham's  Cash  Store.  v 

Martin  Eden  looked  with  a  sigh  at  his  unfinished  "Pearl- 
diving  "  on  Monday  morning,  and  took  the  car  down  to 
Oakland  to  the  high  school.  And  when,  days  later,  he 


MARTIN  EDEN  87 

applied  for  the  results  of  his  examinations,  he  learned 
that  he  had  failed  in  everything  save  grammar. 

"Your  grammar  is  excellent,"  Professor  Hilton  in 
formed  him,  staring  at  him  through  heavy  spectacles ; 
"  but  you  know  nothing,  positively  nothing,  in  the  other 
branches,  and  your  United  States  history  is  abominable  — 
there  is  no  other  word  for  it,  abominable.  I  should 
advise  you — " 

Professor  Hilton  paused  and  glared  at  him,  unsympa 
thetic  and  unimaginative  as  one  of  his  own  test-tubes.  He 
was  professor  of  physics  in  the  high  school,  possessor  of  a 
large  family,  a  meagre  salary,  and  a  select  fund  of  parrot- 
learned  knowledge. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  Martin  said  humbly,  wishing  somehow  that 
the  man  at  the  desk  in  the  library  was  in  Professor 
Hilton's  place  just  then. 

"  And  I  should  advise  you  to  go  back  to  the  grammar 
school  for  at  least  two  years.  Good  day." 

Martin  was  not  deeply  affected  by  his  failure,  though 
he  was  surprised  at  Ruth's  shocked  expression  when  he 
told  her  Professor  Hilton's  advice.  Her  disappointment 
was  so  evident  that  he  was  sorry  he  had  failed,  but  chiefly 
so  for  her  sake. 

"  You  see  I  was  right,"  she  said.  "  You  know  far  more 
than  any  of  the  students  entering  high  school,  and  yet 
you  can't  pass  the  examinations.  It  is  because  what  edu 
cation  you  have  is  fragmentary,  sketchy.  You  need  the 
discipline  of  study,  such  as  only  skilled  teachers  can  give 
you.  You  must  be  thoroughly  grounded.  Professor  Hil 
ton  is  right,  and  if  I  were  you,  I'd  go  to  night  school.  A 
year  and  a  half  of  it  might  enable  you  to  catch  up  that 
additional  six  months.  Besides,  that  would  leave  you 
your  days  in  which  to  write,  or,  if  you  could  not  make 
your  living  by  your  pen,  you  would  have  your  days  in 
which  to  work  in  some  position." 

But  if  my  days  are  taken  up  with  work  and  my  nights 
with  school,  when  am  I  going  to  see  you  ?  —  was  Martin's 
first  thought,  though  he  refrained  from  uttering  it.  In 
stead,  he  said  :  — 


88  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  It  seems  so  babyish  for  me  to  be  going  to  night  school. 
But  I  wouldn't  mind  that  if  I  thought  it  would  pay. 
But  I  don't  think  it  will  pay.  I  can  do  the  work  quicker 
than  they  can  teach  me.  It  would  be  a  loss  of  time  — " 
he  thought  of  her  and  his  desire  to  have  her  —  "  and  I  can't 
afford  the  time.  I  haven't  the  time  to  spare,  in  fact." 

"There  is  so  much  that  is  necessary."  She  looked  at 
him  gently,  and  he  felt  that  he  was  a  brute  to  oppose  her. 
"Physics  and  chemistry  —  you  can't  do  them  without 
laboratory  study  ;  and  you'll  find  algebra  and  geometry 
almost  hopeless  without  instruction.  You  need  the  skilled 
teachers,  the  specialists  in  the  art  of  imparting  knowledge." 

He  was  silent  for  a  minute,  casting  about  for  the  least 
vainglorious  way  in  which  to  express  himself. 

"Please  don't  think  I'm  bragging,"  he  began.  "I 
don't  intend  it  that  way  at  all.  But  I  have  a  feeling  that 
I  am  what  I  may  call  a  natural  student.  I  can  study  by 
myself.  I  take  to  it  kindly,  like  a  duck  to  water.  You 
see  yourself  what  I  did  with  grammar.  And  I've  learned 
much  of  other  things  —  you  would  never  dream  how  much. 
And  I'm  only  getting  started.  Wait  till  I  get  —  "  He 
hesitated  and  assured  himself  of  the  pronunciation  before 
he  said  "  momentum.  I'm  getting  my  first  real  feel  of 
things  now.  I'm  beginning  to  size  up  the  situation  —  " 

"  Please  don't  say  '  size  up,'  "  she  interrupted. 

"  To  get  a  line  on  things,"  he  hastily  amended. 

"  That  doesn't  mean  anything  in  correct  English,"  she 
objected. 

He  floundered  for  a  fresh  start. 

"  What  I'm  driving  at  is  that  I'm  beginning  to  get  the 
lay  of  the  land." 

Out  of  pity  she  forebore,  and  he  went  on. 

"Knowledge  seems  to  me  like  a  chart-room.  When 
ever  I  go  into  the  library,  I  am  impressed  that  way.  The 
part  played  by  teachers  is  to  teach  the  student  the  con 
tents  of  the  chart-room  in  a  systematic  way.  The 
teachers  are  guides  to  the  chart-room,  that's  all.  It's 
not  something  that  they  have  in  their  own  heads.  They 
don't  make  it  up,  don't  create  it.  It's  all  in  the  chart- 


MARTIN  EDEN  89 

room  and  they  know  their  way  about  in  it,  and  it's  their 
business  to  show  the  place  to  strangers  who  might  else 
get  lost.  Now  I  don't  get  lost  easily.  I  have  the  bump 
of  location.  I  usually  know  where  I'm  at —  What's 
wrong  now  ?  " 

"  Don't  say  'where  I'm  at.'  " 

"  That's  right,"  he  said  gratefully,  "  where  I  am.  But 
where  am  I  at  —  I  mean,  where  am  I  ?  Oh,  yes,  in  the 
chart-room.  Well,  some  people  — " 

"  Persons,"  she  corrected. 

"  Some  persons  need  guides,  most  persons  do  ;  but  I 
think  I  can  get  along  without  them.  I've  spent  a  lot  of 
time  in  the  chart-room  now,  and  I'm  on  the  edge  of 
knowing  my  way  about,  what  charts  I  want  to  refer  to, 
what  coasts  I  want  to  explore.  And  from  the  way  I  line 
it  up,  I'll  explore  a  whole  lot  more  quickly  by  myself. 
The  speed  of  a  fleet,  you  know,  is  the  speed  of  the  slowest 
ship,  and  the  speed  of  the  teachers  is  affected  the  same 
way.  They  can't  go  any  faster  than  the  ruck  of  their 
scholars,  and  I  can  set  a  faster  pace  for  myself  than  they 
set  for  a  whole  schoolroom." 

" '  He  travels  the  fastest  who  travels  alone,' "  she  quoted 
at  him. 

But  I'd  travel  faster  with  you  just  the  same,  was  what 
he  wanted  to  blurt  out,  as  he  caught  a  vision  of  a  world 
without  end  of  sunlit  spaces  and  starry  voids  through 
which  he  drifted  with  her,  his  arm  around  her,  her  pale 
gold  hair  blowing  about  his  face.  In  the  same  instant  he 
was  aware  of  the  pitiful  inadequacy  of  speech.  God!  If 
he  could  so  frame  words  that  she  could  see  what  he  then 
saw  !  And  he  felt  the  stir  in  him,  like  a  throe  of  yearn 
ing  pain,  of  the  desire  to  paint  these  visions  that  flashed 
unsummoned  on  the  mirror  of  his  mind.  Ah,  that  was 
it  I  He  caught  at  the  hem  of  the  secret.  It  was  the  very 
thing  that  the  great  writers  and  master-poets  did.  That 
was  why  they  were  giants.  They  knew  how  to  express 
what  they  thought,  and  felt,  and  saw.  Dogs  asleep  in 
the  sun  often  whined  and  barked,  but  they  were  unable 
to  tell  what  they  saw  that  made  them  whine  and  bark. 


90  MARTIN  EDEN 

He  had  often  wondered  what  it  was.  And  that  was  all 
he  was,  a  dog  asleep  in  the  sun.  He  saw  noble  and 
beautiful  visions,  but  he  could  only  whine  and  bark  at 
Ruth.  But  he  would  cease  sleeping  in  the  sun.  He 
would  stand  up,  with  open  eyes,  and  he  would  struggle 
and  toil  and  learn  until,  with  eyes  unblinded  and  tongue 
untied,  he  could  share  with  her  his  visioned  wealth. 
Other  men  had  discovered  the  trick  of  expression,  of 
making  words  obedient  servitors,  and  of  making  combina 
tions  of  words  mean  more  than  the  sum  of  their  separate 
meanings.  He  was  stirred  profoundly  by  the  passing 
glimpse  at  the  secret,  and  he  was  again  caught  up  in  the 
vision  of  sunlit  spaces  and  starry  voids  —  until  it  came 
to  him  that  it  was  very  quiet,  and  he  saw  Ruth  re 
garding  him  with  an  amused  expression  and  a  smile  in 
her  eyes. 

"I  have  had  a  great  visioning,"  he  said,  and  at  the 
sound  of  his  words  in  his  own  ears  his  heart  gave  a  leap. 
Where  had  those  words  come  from  ?  They  had  adequately 
expressed  the  pause  his  vision  had  put  in  the  conversation. 
It  was  a  miracle.  Never  had  he  so  loftily  framed  a  lofty 
thought.  But  never  had  he  attempted  to  frame  lofty 
thoughts  in  words.  That  was  it.  That  explained  it. 
He  had  never  tried.  But  Swinburne  had,  and  Tennyson, 
and  Kipling,  and  all  the  other  poets.  His  mind  flashed 
on  to  his  "  Pearl-diving."  He  had  never  dared  the  big 
things,  the  spirit  of  the  beauty  that  was  a  fire  in  him. 
That  article  would  be  a  different  thing  when  he  was  done 
with  it.  He  was  appalled  by  the  vastness  of  the  beauty 
that  rightfully  belonged  in  it,  and  again  his  mind  flashed 
and  dared,  and  he  demanded  of  himself  why  he  could  not 
chant  that  beauty  in  noble  verse  as  the  great  poets  did. 
And  there  was  all  the  mysterious  delight  and  spiritual 
wonder  of  his  love  for  Ruth.  Why  could  he  not  chant 
that,  too,  as  the  poets  did  ?  They  had  sung  of  love.  So 
would  he.  By  God  !  — 

And  in  his  frightened  ears  he  heard  his  exclamation 
echoing.  Carried  away,  he  had  breathed  it  aloud.  The 
blood  surged  into  his  face,  wave  upon  wave,  mastering 


MARTIN  EDEN  91 

the  bronze  of  it  till  the  blush  of  shame  flaunted  itself 
from  collar-rim  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 

"I  —  I  —  beg  your  pardon,"  he  stammered.  " I  was 
thinking." 

"  It  sounded  as  if  you  were  praying,"  she  said  bravely, 
but  she  felt  herself  inside  to  be  withering  and  shrinking. 
It  was  the  first  time  she  had  heard  an  oath  from  the  lips 
of  a  man  she  knew,  and  she  was  shocked,  not  merely  as  a 
matter  of  principle  and  training,  but  shocked  in  spirit  by 
this  rough  blast  of  life  in  the  garden  of  her  sheltered 
maidenhood. 

But  she  forgave,  and  with  surprise  at  the  ease  of  her 
forgiveness.  Somehow  it  was  not  so  difficult  to  forgive 
him  anything.  He  had  not  had  a  chance  to  be  as  other 
men,  and  he  was  trying  so  hard,  and  succeeding,  too.  It 
never  entered  her  head  that  there  could  be  any  other 
reason  for  her  being  kindly  disposed  toward  him.  She 
was  tenderly  disposed  toward  him,  but  she  did  not  know 
it.  She  had  no  way  of  knowing  it.  The  placid  poise  of 
twenty-four  years  without  a  single  love  affair  did  not  fit 
her  with  a  keen  perception  of  her  own  feelings,  and  she 
who  had  never  warmed  to  actual  love  was  unaware  that 
she  vras  warming  now. 


CHAPTER  XI 

MARTIN  went  back  to  his  pearl-diving  article,  which 
would  have  been  finished  sooner  if  it  had  not  been  broken 
in  upon  so  frequently  by  his  attempts  to  write  poetry. 
His  poems  were  love  poems,  inspired  by  Ruth,  but  they 
were  never  completed.  Not  in  a  day  could  he  learn  to 
chant  in  noble  verse.  Rhyme  and  metre  and  structure 
were  serious  enough  in  themselves,  but  there  was,  over 
and  beyond  them,  an  intangible  and  evasive  something 
that  he  caught  in  all  great  poetry,  but  which  he  could  not 
catch  and  imprison  in  his  own.  It  was  the  elusive  spirit 
of  poetry  itself  that  he  sensed  and  sought  after  but  could 
not  capture.  It  seemed  a  glow  to  him,  a  warm  and  trail 
ing  vapor,  ever  beyond  his  reaching,  though  sometimes  he 
was  rewarded  by  catching  at  shreds  of  it  and  weaving 
them  into  phrases  that  echoed  in  his  brain  with  haunting 
notes  or  drifted  across  his  vision  in  misty  wafture  of  un 
seen  beauty.  It  was  baffling.  He  ached  with  desire  to 
express  and  could  but  gibber  prosaically  as  everybody 
gibbered.  He  read  his  fragments  aloud.  The  metre 
marched  along  on  perfect  feet,  and  the  rhyme  pounded  a 
longer  and  equally  faultless  rhythm,  but  the  glow  and  high 
exaltation  that  he  felt  within  were  lacking.  He  could  not 
understand,  and  time  and  again,  in  despair,  defeated  and 
depressed,  he  returned  to  his  article.  Prose  was  certainly 
an  easier  medium. 

Following  the  "Pearl-diving,"  he  wrote  an  article  on 
the  sea  as  a  career,  another  on  turtle- catching,  and  a  third 
on  the  northeast  trades.  Then  he  tried,  as  an  experi 
ment,  a  short  story,  and  before  he  broke  his  stride  he  had 
finished  six  short  stories  and  despatched  them  to  various 
magazines.  He  wrote  prolifically,  intensely,  from  morn 
ing  till  night,  and  late  at  night,  except  when  he  broke  off 

92 


MARTIN  EDEN  93 

to  go  to  the  reading-room,  draw  books  from  the  library, 
or  to  call  on  Ruth.  He  was  profoundly  happy.  Life  was 
pitched  high.  He  was  in  a  fever  that  never  broke.  The 
joy  of  creation  that  is  supposed  to  belong  to  the  gods  was 
his.  All  the  life  about  him  —  the  odors  of  stale  vegetables 
and  soapsuds,  the  slatternly  form  of  his  sister,  and  the 
jeering  face  of  Mr.  Higginbotham  —  was  a  dream.  The 
real  world  was  in  his  mind,  and  the  stories  he  wrote  were 
so  many  pieces  of  reality  out  of  his  mind. 

The  days  were  too  short.  There  was  so  much  he 
wanted  to  study.  He  cut  his  sleep  down  to  five  hours 
and  found  that  he  could  get  along  upon  it.  He  tried 
four  hours  and  a  half,  and  regretfully  came  back  to  five. 
He  could  joyfully  have  spent  all  his  waking  hours  upon 
any  one  of  his  pursuits.  It  was  with  regret  that  he  ceased 
from  writing  to  study,  that  he  ceased  from  study  to  go  to 
the  library,  that  he  tore  himself  away  from  that  chart-room 
of  knowledge  or  from  the  magazines  in  the  reading-room 
that  were  filled  with  the  secrets  of  writers  who  suc 
ceeded  in  selling  their  wares.  It  was  like  severing  heart 
strings,  when  he  was  with  Ruth,  to  stand  up  and  go ;  and 
he  scorched  through  the  dark  streets  so  as  to  get  home  to 
his  books  at  the  least  possible  expense  of  time.  And 
hardest  of  all  was  it  to  shut  up  the  algebra  or  physics, 
put  note-book  and  pencil  aside,  and  close  his  tired  eyes  in 
sleep.  He  hated  the  thought  of  ceasing  to  live,  even  for 
so  short  a  time,  and  his  sole  consolation  was  that  the  alarm 
clock  was  set  five  hours  ahead.  He  would  lose  only  five 
hours  anyway,  and  then  the  jangling  bell  would  jerk  him 
out  of  unconsciousness  and  he  would  have  before  him 
another  glorious  day  of  nineteen  hours. 

In  the  meantime  the  weeks  were  passing,  his  money 
was  ebbing  low,  and  there  was  no  money  coming  in.  A 
month  after  he  had  mailed  it,  the  adventure  serial  for 
boys  was  returned  to  him  by  The  Youth's  Companion. 
The  rejection  slip  was  so  tactfully  worded  that  he  felt 
kindly  toward  the  editor.  But  he  did  not  feel  so 
kindly  toward  the  editor  of  the  San  Francisco  Examiner. 
After  waiting  two  whole  weeks,  Martin  had  written  to 


94  MARTIN  EDEN 

him.  A  week  later  he  wrote  again.  At  the  end  of  the 
month,  he  went  over  to  San  Franscisco  and  personally 
called  upon  the  editor.  But  he  did  not  meet  that  exalted 
personage,  thanks  to  a  Cerberus  of  an  office  boy,  of  tender 
years  and  red  hair,  who  guarded  the  portals.  At  the  end 
of  the  fifth  week  the  manuscript  came  back  to  him,  by 
mail,  without  comment.  There  was  no  rejection  slip,  no 
explanation,  nothing.  In  the  same  way  his  other  articles 
were  tied  up  with  the  other  leading  San  Francisco  papers. 
When  he  recovered  them,  he  sent  them  to  the  magazines 
in  the  East,  from  which  they  were  returned  more  promptly, 
accompanied  always  by  the  printed  rejection  slips. 

The  short  stories  were  returned  in  similar  fashion.  He 
read  them  over  and  over,  and  liked  them  so  much  that  he 
could  not  puzzle  out  the  cause  of  their  rejection,  until, 
one  day,  he  read  in  a  newspaper  that  manuscripts  should 
always  be  typewritten.  That  explained  it.  Of  course 
editors  were  so  busy  that  they  could  not  afford  the  time 
and  strain  of  reading  handwriting.  Martin  rented  a 
typewriter  and  spent  a  day  mastering  the  machine.  Each 
day  he  typed  what  he  composed,  and  he  typed  his  earlier 
manuscripts  as  fast  as  they  were  returned  him.  He  was 
surprised  when  the  typed  ones  began  to  come  back.  His 
jaw  seemed  to  become  squarer,  his  chin  more  aggressive, 
and  he  bundled  the  manuscripts  off  to  new  editors. 

The  thought  came  to  him  that  he  was  not  a  good  judge 
of  his  own  work.  He  tried  it  out  on  Gertrude.  He  read 
his  stories  aloud  to  her.  Her  eyes  glistened,  and  she 
looked  at  him  proudly  as  she  said :  — 

u  Ain't  it  grand,  you  writin'  those  sort  of  things." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  demanded  impatiently.  "  But  the  story 
—  how  did  you  like  it  ?" 

"  Just  grand,"  was  the  reply.  "  Just  grand,  an'  thrill 
ing,  too.  I  was  all  worked  up." 

He  could  see  that  her  mind  was  not  clear.  The  per 
plexity  was  strong  in  her  good-natured  face.  So  he 
waited. 

"  But,  say,  Mart,"  after  a  long  pause,  "  how  did  it  end  ? 
Did  that  young  man  who  spoke  so  highfalutin'  get  her  ?  " 


MARTIN  EDEN  95 

And,  after  he  had  explained  the  end,  which  he  thought 
he  had  made  artistically  obvious,  she  would  say :  — 

"  That's  what  I  wanted  to  know.  Why  didn't  you  write 
that  way  in  the  story  ?  " 

One  thing  he  learned,  after  he  had  read  her  a  number 
of  stories,  namely,  that  she  liked  happy  endings. 

"That  story  was  perfectly  grand,"  she  announced, 
straightening  up  from  the  wash-tub  with  a  tired  sigh  and 
wiping  the  sweat  from  her  forehead  with  a  red,  steamy 
hand ;  "  but  it  makes  me  sad.  I  want  to  cry.  There  is 
too  many  sad  things  in  the  world  anyway.  It  makes  me 
happy  to  think  about  happy  things.  Now  if  he'd  married 
her,  and  —  You  don't  mind,  Mart  ?  "  she  queried  appre 
hensively.  "  I  just  happen  to  feel  that  way,  because 
I'm  tired,  I  guess.  But  the  story  was  grand  just  the 
same,  perfectly  grand.  Where  are  you  goin'  to  sell  it  ?  " 

"  That's  a  horse  of  another  color,"  he  laughed. 

44  But  if  you  did  sell  it,  what  do  you  think  you'd  get 
for  it?" 

44  Oh,  a  hundred  dollars.  That  would  be  the  least,  the 
way  prices  go." 

"My  I  I  do  hope  you'll  sell  it !  " 

44  Easy  money,  eh  ?  "  Then  he  added  proudly  :  "  I 
wrote  it  in  two  days.  That's  fifty  dollars  a  day." 

He  longed  to  read  his  stories  to  Ruth,  but  did  not  dare. 
He  would  wait  till  some  were  published,  he  decided,  then 
she  would  understand  what  he  had  been  working  for.  In 
the  meantime  he  toiled  on.  Never  had  the  spirit  of  adven 
ture  lured  him  more  strongly  than  on  this  amazing  ex 
ploration  of  the  realm  of  mind.  He  bought  the  text-books 
on  physics  and  chemistry,  and,  along  with  his  algebra, 
worked  out  problems  and  demonstrations.  He  took  the 
laboratory  proofs  on  faith,  and  his  intense  power  of  vision 
enabled  him  to  see  the  reactions  of  chemicals  more  under- 
standingly  than  the  average  student  saw  them  in  the 
laboratory.  Martin  wandered  on  through  the  heavy 
pages,  overwhelmed  by  the  clews  he  was  getting  to  the 
nature  of  things.  He  had  accepted  the  world  as  the 
world,  but  now  he  was  comprehending  the  organization 


96  MARTIN  EDEN 

of  it,  the  play  and  interplay  of  force  and  matter.  Spon 
taneous  explanations  of  old  matters  were  continually  aris 
ing  in  his  mind.  Levers  and  purchases  fascinated  him, 
and  his  mind  roved  backward  to  hand-spikes  and  blocks 
and  tackles  at  sea.  The  theory  of  navigation,  which  en 
abled  the  ships  to  travel  unerringly  their  courses  over 
the  pathless  ocean,  was  made  clear  to  him.  The  mys 
teries  of  storm,  and  rain,  and  tide  were  revealed,  and  the 
reason  for  the  existence  of  trade-winds  made  him  wonder 
whether  he  had  written  his  article  on  the  northeast  trade 
too  soon.  At  any  rate  he  knew  he  could  write  it  better 
now.  One  afternoon  he  went  out  with  Arthur  to  the 
University  of  California,  and,  with  bated  breath  and  a 
feeling  of  religious  awe,  went  through  the  laboratories, 
saw  demonstrations,  and  listened  to  a  physics  professor 
lecturing  to  his  classes. 

But  he  did  not  neglect  his  writing.  A  stream  of  short 
stories  flowed  from  his  pen,  and  he  branched  out  into  the 
easier  forms  of  verse  —  the  kind  he  saw  printed  in  the 
magazines — though  he  lost  his  head  and  wasted  two  weeks 
on  a  tragedy  in  blank  verse,  the  swift  rejection  of  which, 
by  half  a  dozen  magazines,  dumfounded  him.  Then  he 
discovered  Henley  and  wrote  a  series  of  sea-poems  on  the 
model  of  "  Hospital  Sketches."  They  were  simple  poems, 
of  light  and  color,  and  romance  and  adventure.  "Sea 
Lyrics,"  he  called  them,  and  he  judged  them  to  be  the 
best  work  he  had  yet  done.  There  were  thirty,  and  he 
completed  them  in  a  month,  doing  one  a  day  after  having 
done  his  regular  day's  work  on  fiction,  which  day's  work 
was  the  equivalent  to  a  week's  work  of  the  average  suc 
cessful  writer.  The  toil  meant  nothing  to  him.  It  was 
not  toil.  He  was  finding  speech,  and  all  the  beauty  and 
wonder  that  had  been  pent  for  years  behind  his  inar 
ticulate  lips  was  now  pouring  forth  in  a  wild  and  virile 
flood. 

He  showed  the  "  Sea  Lyrics  "  to  no  one,  not  even  to  the 
editors.  He  had  become  distrustful  of  editors.  But  it 
was  not  distrust  that  prevented  him  from  submitting  the 
"Lyrics."  They  were  so  beautiful  to  him  that  he  was 


MARTIN  EDEN  97 

impelled  to  save  them  to  share  with  Ruth  in  some  glori 
ous,  far-off  time  when  he  would  dare  to  read  to  her  what 
he  had  written.  Against  that  time  he  kept  them  with 
him,  reading  them  aloud,  going  over  them  until  he  knew 
them  by  heart. 

He  lived  every  moment  of  his  waking  hours,  and  he 
lived  in  his  sleep,  his  subjective  mind  rioting  through 
his  five  hours  of  surcease  and  combining  the  thoughts  and 
events  of  the  day  into  grotesque  and  impossible  marvels. 
In  reality,  he  never  rested,  and  a  weaker  body  or  a  less 
firmly  poised  brain  would  have  been  prostrated  in  a 
general  break-down.  His  late  afternoon  calls  on  Ruth 
were  rarer  now,  for  June  was  approaching,  when  she 
would  take  her  degree  and  finish  with  the  university. 
Bachelor  of  Arts  !  —  when  he  thought  of  her  degree,  it 
seemed  she  fled  beyond  him  faster  than  he  could  pursue. 

One  afternoon  a  week  she  gave  to  him,  and  arriving 
late,  he  usually  stayed  for  dinner  and  for  music  afterward. 
Those  were  his  red-letter  days.  The  atmosphere  of  the 
house,  in  such  contrast  with  that  in  which  he  lived,  and 
the  mere  nearness  to  her,  sent  him  forth  each  time  with 
a  firmer  grip  on  his  resolve  to  climb  the  heights.  In  spite 
of  the  beauty  in  him,  and  the  aching  desire  to  create,  it 
was  for  her  that  he  struggled.  He  was  a  lover  first  and 
always.  All  other  things  he  subordinated  to  love. 
Greater  than  his  adventure  in  the  world  of  thought  was 
his  love-adventure.  The  world  itself  was  not  so  amazing 
because  of  the  atoms  and  molecules  that  composed  it  ac 
cording  to  the  propulsions  of  irresistible  force ;  what 
made  it  amazing  was  the  fact  that  Ruth  lived  in  it.  She 
was  the  most  amazing  thing  he  had  ever  known,  or 
dreamed,  or  guessed. 

But  he  was  oppressed  always  by  her  remoteness.  She 
was  so  far  from  him,  and  he  did  not  know  how  to  ap 
proach  her.  He  had  been  a  success  with  girls  and  women 
in  his  own  class ;  but  he  had  never  loved  any  of  them, 
while  he  did  love  her,  and  besides,  she  was  not  merely 
of  another  class.  His  very  love  elevated  her  above  all 
classes.  She  was  a  being  apart,  so  far  apart  that  he  did 


98  MARTIN  EDEN 

not  know  how  to  draw  near  to  her  as  a  lover  should  draw- 
near.  It  was  true,  as  he  acquired  knowledge  and 
language,  that  he  was  drawing  nearer,  talking  her  speech, 
discovering  ideas  and  delights  in  common  ;  but  this  did 
not  satisfy  his  lover's  yearning.  His  lover's  imagination 
had  made  her  holy,  too  holy,  too  spiritualized,  to  have  any 
kinship  with  him  in  the  flesh.  It  was  his  own  lo\  e  that 
thrust  her  from  him  and  made  her  seem  impossible  for 
him.  Love  itself  denied  him  the  one  thing  that  it  desired. 

And  then,  one  day,  without  warning,  the  gulf  between 
them  was  bridged  for  a  moment,  and  thereafter,  though 
the  gulf  remained,  it  was  ever  narrower.  They  had  been 
eating  cherries — great,  luscious,  black  cherries  with  a  juice 
of  the  color  of  dark  wine.  And  later,  as  she  read  aloud  to 
him  from  "  The  Princess,"  he  chanced  to  notice  the  stain 
of  the  cherries  on  her  lips.  For  the  moment  her  divinity 
was  shattered.  She  was  clay,  after  all,  mere  clay,  subject 
to  the  common  law  of  clay  as  his  clay  was  subject,  or  any 
body's  clay.  Her  lips  were  flesh  like  his,  and  cherries  dyed 
them  as  cherries  dyed  his.  And  if  so  with  her  lips,  then 
was  it  so  with  all  of  her.  She  was  woman,  all  woman,  just 
like  any  woman.  It  came  upon  him  abruptly.  It  was  a 
revelation  that  stunned  him.  It  was  as  if  he  had  seen  the 
sun  fall  out  of  the  sky,  or  had  seen  worshipped  purity  pol 
luted. 

Then  he  realized  the  significance  of  it,  and  his  heart  be 
gan  pounding  and  challenging  him  to  play  the  lover  with 
this  woman  who  was  not  a  spirit  from  other  worlds  but  a 
mere  woman  with  lips  a  cherry  could  stain.  He  trembled 
at  the  audacity  of  his  thought ;  but  all  his  soul  was  sing 
ing,  and  reason,  in  a  triumphant  paean,  assured  him  he 
was  right.  Something  of  this  change  in  him  must  have 
reached  her,  for  she  paused  from  her  reading,  looked  up  at 
him,  and  smiled.  His  eyes  dropped  from  her  blue  eyes  to 
her  lips,  and  the  sight  of  the  stain  maddened  him.  His 
arms  all  but  flashed  out  to  her  and  around  her,  in  the  way 
of  his  old  careless  life.  She  seemed  to  lean  toward  him, 
to  wait,  and  all  his  will  fought  to  hold  him  back. 

"  You  were  not  following  a  word,"  she  pouted. 


MARTIN  EDEN  99 

Then  she  laughed  at  him,  delighting  in  his  confusion, 
and  as  he  looked  into  her  frank  eyes  and  knew  that  she 
had  divined  nothing  of  what  he  felt,  he  became  abashed. 
He  had  indeed  in  thought  dared  too  far.  Of  all  the  women 
he  had  known  there  was  no  woman  who  would  not  have 
guessed  —  save  her.  And  she  had  not  guessed.  There 
was  the  difference.  She  was  different.  He  was  appalled 
by  his  own  grossness,  awed  by  her  clear  innocence,  and  he 
gazed  again  at  her  across  the  gulf.  The  bridge  had  broken 
down. 

But  still  the  incident  had  brought  him  nearer.  The 
memory  of  it  persisted,  and  in  the  moments  when  he  was 
most  cast  down,  he  dwelt  upon  it  eagerly.  The  gulf  was 
never  again  so  wide.  He  had  accomplished  a  distance 
vastly  greater  than  a  bachelorship  of  arts,  or  a  dozen  bach 
elorships.  She  was  pure,  it  was  true,  as  he  had  never 
dreamed  of  purity  ;  but  cherries  stained  her  lips.  She 
was  subject  to  the  laws  of  the  universe  just  as  inexorably 
as  he  was.  She  had  to  eat  to  live,  and  when  she  got  her 
feet  wet,  she  caught  cold.  But  that  was  not  the  point. 
If  she  could  feel  hunger  and  thirst,  and  heat  and  cold,  then 
could  she  feel  love  —  and  love  for  a  man.  Well,  he  was  a 
man.  And  why  could  he  not  be  the  man  ?  "  It's  up  to 
me  to  make  good,"  he  would  murmur  fervently.  "  I  will 
be  the  man.  I  will  make  myself  the  man.  I  will  make 
good." 


CHAPTER  XII 

EARLY  one  evening,  struggling  with  a  sonnet  that 
twisted  all  awry  the  beauty  and  thought  that  trailed  in 
glow  and  vapor  through  his  brain,  Martin  was  called  to 
the  telephone. 

"  It's  a  lady's  voice,  a  fine  lady's,"  Mr.  Higginbotham, 
who  had  called  him,  jeered. 

Martin  went  to  the  telephone  in  the  corner  of  the  room, 
and  felt  a  wave  of  warmth  rush  through  him  as  he  heard 
Ruth's  voice.  In  his  battle  with  the  sonnet  he  had  for 
gotten  her  existence,  and  at  the  sound  of  her  voice  his 
love  for  her  smote  him  like  a  sudden  blow.  And  such  a 
voice  !  —  delicate  and  sweet,  like  a  strain  of  music  heard 
far  off  and  faint,  or,  better,  like  a  bell  of  silver,  a  perfect 
tone,  crystal-pure.  No  mere  woman  had  a  voice  like  that. 
There  was  something  celestial  about  it,  and  it  came  from 
other  worlds.  He  could  scarcely  hear  what  it  said,  so 
ravished  was  he,  though  he  controlled  his  face,  for  he 
knew  that  Mr.  Higginbotham's  ferret  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
him. 

It  was  not  much  that  Ruth  wanted  to  say  —  merely  that 
Norman  had  been  going  to  take  her  to  a  lecture  that  night, 
but  that  he  had  a  headache,  and  she  was  so  disappointed, 
and  she  had  the  tickets,  and  that  if  he  had  no  other  en 
gagement,  would  he  be  good  enough  to  take  her  ? 

Would  he  !  He  fought  to  suppress  the  eagerness  in 
his  voice.  It  was  amazing.  He  had  always  seen  her  in 
her  own  house.  And  he  had  never  dared  to  ask  her  to  go 
anywhere  with  him.  Quite  irrelevantly,  still  at  the  tele 
phone  and  talking  with  her,  he  felt  an  overpowering  desire 
to  die  for  her,  and  visions  of  heroic  sacrifice  shaped  and 
dissolved  in  his  whirling  brain.  He  loved  her  so  much,  so 
terribly,  so  hopelessly.  In  that  moment  of  mad  happiness 

100 


MARTIN  EDEN  101 

that  she  should  go  out  with  him,  go  to  a  lecture  with  him 
—  with  him,  Martin  Eden  —  she  soared  so  far  above  him 
that  there  seemed  nothing  else  for  him  to  do  than  die  for 
her.  It  was  the  only  fit  way  in  which  he  could  express 
the  tremendous  and  lofty  emotion  he  felt  for  her.  It  was 
the  sublime  abnegation  of  tru«  lore  that  comes  to  all 
lovers,  and  it  came  to  him  there,  at  the  telephone,  in  a 
whirlwind  of  fire  and  glory  ;  and  to  die  for  her,  he  felt,  was 
to  have  lived  and  loved  well.  And  he  was  only  twenty- 
one,  and  he  had  never  been  in  love  before. 

His  hand  trembled  as  he  hung  up  the  receiver,  and  he 
was  weak  from  the  organ  which  had  stirred  him.  His 
eyes  were  shining  like  an  angel's,  and  his  face  was  trans 
figured,  purged  of  all  earthly  dross,  and  pure  and  holy. 

"  Makin'  dates  outside,  eh?  "  his  brother-in-law  sneered. 
**  You  know  what  that  means.  You'll  be  in  the  police 
court  yet." 

But  Martin  could  not  come  down  from  the  height.  Not 
even  the  bestiality  of  the  allusion  could  bring  him  back  to 
earth.  Anger  and  hurt  were  beneath  him.  He  had  seen 
a  great  vision  and  was  as  a  god,  and  he  could  feel  only 
profound  and  awful  pity  for  this  maggot  of  a  man.  He 
did  not  look  at  him,  and  though  his  eyes  passed  over  him, 
he  did  not  see  him ;  and  as  in  a  dream  he  passed  out  of  the 
room  to  dress.  It  was  not  until  he  had  reached  his  own 
room  and  was  tying  his  necktie  that  he  became  aware  of  a 
sound  that  lingered  unpleasantly  in  his  ears.  On  investi 
gating  this  sound  he  identified  it  as  the  final  snort  of  Ber 
nard  Higginbotham,  whieh  somehow  had  not  penetrated 
to  his  brain  before. 

As  Ruth's  front  door  closed  behind  them  and  he  came 
down  the  steps  with  her,  he  found  himself  greatly  per 
turbed.  It  was  not  unalloyed  bliss,  taking  her  to  the  lec 
ture.  He  did  not  know  what  he  ought  to  do.  He  had 
seen,  on  the  streets,  with  persons  of  her  class,  that  the 
women  took  the  men's  arms.  But  then,  again,  he  had 
seen  them  when  they  didn't ;  and  he  wondered  if  it  was 
only  in  the  evening  that  arms  were  taken,  or  only  between 
husbands  and  wives  and  relatives. 


102  MARTIN  EDEN 

Just  before  he  reached  the  sidewalk,  he  remembered 
Minnie.  Minnie  had  always  been  a  stickler.  She  had 
called  him  down  the  second  time  she  walked  out  with 
him,  because  he  had  gone  along  on  the  inside,  and  she  had 
laid  the  law  down  to  him  that  a  gentleman  always  walked  on 
the  outside  —  when  he  was  with  a  lady.  And  Minnie  had 
made  a  practice  of  kicking  his  heels,  whenever  they  crossed 
from  one  side  of  the  street  to  the  other,  to  remind  him  to 
get  over  on  the  outside.  He  wondered  where  she  had  got 
that  item  of  etiquette,  and  whether  it  had  filtered  down 
from  above  and  was  all  right. 

It  wouldn't  do  any  harm  to  try  it,  he  decided,  by  the 
time  they  had  reached  the  sidewalk  ;  and  he  swung  behind 
Ruth  and  took  up  his  station  on  the  outside.  Then  the 
other  problem  presented  itself.  Should  he  offer  her  his 
arm  ?  He  had  never  offered  anybody  his  arm  in  his  life. 
The  girls  he  had  known  never  took  the  fellows'  arms.  For 
the  first  several  times  they  walked  freely,  side  by  side,  and 
after  that  it  was  arms  around  the  waists,  and  heads  against 
the  fellows'  shoulders  where  the  streets  were  unlighted. 
But  this  was  different.  She  wasn't  that  kind  of  a  girl. 
He  must  do  something. 

He  crooked  the  arm  next  to  her  —  crooked  it  very 
slightly  and  with  secret  tentativeness,  not  invitingly,  but 
just  casually,  as  though  he  was  accustomed  to  walk  that 
way.  And  then  the  wonderful  thing  happened.  He  felt 
her  hand  upon  his  arm.  Delicious  thrills  ran  through  him 
at  the  contact,  and  for  a  few  sweet  moments  it  seemed  that 
he  had  left  the  solid  earth  and  was  flying  with  her  through 
the  air.  But  he  was  soon  back  again,  perturbed  by  a  new 
complication.  They  were  crossing  the  street.  This  would 
put  him  on  the  inside.  He  should  be  on  the  outside. 
Should  he  therefore  drop  her  arm  and  change  over  ?  And 
if  he  did  so,  would  he  have  to  repeat  the  manoeuvre  the  next 
time  ?  And  the  next  ?  There  was  something  wrong  about 
it,  and  he  resolved  not  to  caper  about  and  play  the  fool. 
Yet  he  was  not  satisfied  with  his  conclusion,  and  when  he 
found  himself  on  the  inside,  he  talked  quickly  and  ear 
nestly,  making  a  show  of  being  carried  away  by  what  he 


MARTIN  EDEN  103 

was  saying,  so  that,  in  case  he  was  wrong  in  not  changing 
sides,  his  enthusiasm  would  seem  the  cause  for  his  careless 
ness. 

As  they  crossed  Broadway,  he  came  face  to  face  with  a 
new  problem.  In  the  blaze  of  the  electric  lights,  he  saw 
Lizzie  Connolly  and  her  giggly  friend.  Only  for  an  instant 
he  hesitated,  then  his  hand  went  up  and  his  hat  came  off. 
He  could  not  be  disloyal  to  his  kind,  and  it  was  to  more 
than  Lizzie  Connolly  that  his  hat  was  lifted.  She  nodded 
and  looked  at  him  boldly,  not  with  soft  and  gentle  eyes 
like  Ruth's,  but  with  eyes  that  were  handsome  and  hard, 
and  that  swept  on  past  him  to  Ruth  and  itemized  her  face 
and  dress  and  station.  And  he  was  aware  that  Ruth 
looked,  too,  with  quick  eyes  that  were  timid  and  mild  as 
a  dove's,  but  which  saw,  in  a  look  that  was  a  flutter  on  and 
past,  the  working-class  girl  in  her  cheap  finery  and  under 
the  strange  hat  that  all  working-class  girls  were  wearing 
just  then. 

"  What  a  pretty  girl ! "  Ruth  said  a  moment  later. 

Martin  could  have  blessed  her,  though  he  said  :  — 

"I  don't  know.  I  guess  it's  all  a  matter  of  personal 
taste,  but  she  doesn't  strike  me  as  being  particularly- 
pretty." 

"Why,  there  isn't  one  woman  in  ten  thousand  with 
features  as  regular  as  hers.  They  are  splendid.  Her  face 
is  as  clear-cut  as  a  cameo.  And  her  eyes  are  beautiful." 

44  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  Martin  queried  absently,  for  to 
him  there  was  only  one  beautiful  woman  in  the  world,  and 
she  was  beside  him,  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

u  Do  I  think  so  ?  If  that  girl  had  proper  opportunity 
to  dress,  Mr.  Eden,  and  if  she  were  taught  how  to  carry 
herself,  you  would  be  fairly  dazzled  by  her,  and  so  would 
all  men." 

"  She  would  have  to  be  taught  how  to  speak,"  he  com 
mented,  "  or  else  most  of  the  men  wouldn't  understand 
her.  I'm  sure  you  couldn't  understand  a  quarter  of  what 
she  said  if  she  just  spoke  naturally." 

"  Nonsense !  You  are  as  bad  as  Arthur  when  you  try  to 
make  your  point." 


104  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  You  forget  how  I  talked  when  you  first  met  me.  I 
have  learned  a  new  language  since  then.  Before  that  time 
I  talked  as  that  girl  talks.  Now  I  can  manage  to  make 
myself  understood  sufficiently  in  your  language  to  explain 
that  you  do  not  know  that  other  girl's  language.  And  do 
you  know  why  she  carries  herself  the  way  she  does  ?  I 
think  about  such  things  now,  though  I  never  used  to  think 
about  them,  and  I  am  beginning  to  understand  —  much." 

"  But  why  does  she  ?  " 

"She  has  worked  long  hours  for  years  at  machines. 
When  one's  body  is  young,  it  is  very  pliable,  and  hard 
work  will  mould  it  like  putty  according  to  the  nature  of 
the  work.  I  can  tell  at  a  glance  the  trades  of  many  work- 
ingmen  I  meet  on  the  street.  Look  at  me.  Why  am  I 
rolling  all  about  the  shop  ?  Because  of  the  years  I  put  in 
on  the  sea.  If  I'd  put  in  the  same  years  cow-punching, 
with  my  body  young  and  pliable,  I  wouldn't  be  rolling 
now,  but  I'd  be  bow-legged.  And  so  with  that  girl.  You 
noticed  that  her  eyes  were  what  I  might  call  hard.  She 
has  never  been  sheltered.  She  has  had  to  take  care  of  her 
self,  and  a  young  girl  can't  take  care  of  herself  and  keep 
her  eyes  soft  and  gentle  like  —  like  yours,  for  example." 

"  I  think  you  are  right,"  Ruth  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"  And  it  is  too  bad.  She  is  such  a  pretty  girl." 

He  looked  at  her  and  saw  her  eyes  luminous  with  pity. 
And  then  he  remembered  that  he  loved  her  and  was  lost 
in  amazement  at  his  fortune  that  permitted  him  to  love 
her  and  to  take  her  on  his  arm  to  a  lecture. 

Who  are  you,  Martin  Eden  ?  he  demanded  of  himself  in 
the  looking-glass,  that  night  when  he  got  back  to  his  room. 
He  gazed  at  himself  long  and  curiously.  Who  are  you  ? 
What  are  you?  Where  do  you  belong?  You  belong  by 
rights  to  girls  like  Lizzie  Connolly.  You  belong  with  the 
legions  of  toil,  with  all  that  is  low,  and  vulgar,  and  un- 
beautiful.  You  belong  with  the  oxen  and  the  drudges,  in 
dirty  surroundings  among  smells  and  stenches.  There  are 
the  stale  vegetables  now.  Those  potatoes  are  rotting. 
Smell  them,  damn  you,  smell  them.  And  yet  you  dare  to 
<apen  the  books,  to  listen  to  beautiful  music,  to  learn  to  love 


MARTIN  EDEN  105 

beautiful  paintings,  to  speak  good  English,  to  think 
thoughts  that  none  of  your  own  kind  thinks,  to  tear  your 
self  away  from  the  oxen  and  the  Lizzie  Connollys  and  to 
love  a  pale  spirit  of  a  woman  who  is  a  million  miles  be 
yond  you  and  who  lives  in  the  stars!  Who  are  you?  and 
what  are  you?  damn  you!  And  are  you  going  to  make 
good? 

He  shook  his  fist  at  himself  in  the  glass,  and  sat  down  on 
the  edge  of  the  bed  to  dream  for  a  space  with  wide  eyes. 
Then  he  got  out  note-book  and  algebra  and  lost  himself  in 
quadratic  equations,  while  the  hours  slipped  by,  and  the 
stars  dimmed,  and  the  gray  of  dawn  flooded  against  his 
window. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IT  was  the  knot  of  wordy  socialists  and  working-class  phi 
losophers  that  held  forth  in  the  City  Hall  Park  on  warm 
afternoons  that  was  responsible  for  the  great  discovery. 
Once  or  twice  in  the  month,  while  riding  through  the  park 
on  his  way  to  the  library,  Martin  dismounted  from  his 
wheel  and  listened  to  the  arguments,  and  each  time  he  tore 
himself  away  reluctantly.  The  tone  of  discussion  was 
much  lower  than  at  Mr.  Morse's  table.  The  men  were  not 
grave  and  dignified.  They  lost  their  tempers  easily  and 
called  one  another  names,  while  oaths  and  obscene  allusions 
were  frequent  on  their  lips.  Once  or  twice  he  had  seen 
them  come  to  blows.  And  yet,  he  knew  not  why,  there 
seemed  something  vital  about  the  stuff  of  these  men's 
thoughts.  Their  logomachy  was  far  more  stimulating  to 
his  intellect  than  the  reserved  and  quiet  dogmatism  of  Mr. 
Morse.  These  men,  who  slaughtered  English,  gesticulated 
like  lunatics,  and  fought  one  another's  ideas  with  primitive 
anger,  seemed  somehow  to  be  more  alive  than  Mr.  Morse 
and  his  crony,  Mr.  Butler. 

Martin  had  heard  Herbert  Spencer  quoted  several  times 
in  the  park,  but  one  afternoon  a  disciple  of  Spencer's 
appeared,  a  seedy  tramp  with  a  dirty  coat  buttoned  tightly 
at  the  throat  to  conceal  the  absence  of  a  shirt.  Battle 
royal  was  waged,  amid  the  smoking  of  many  cigarettes  and 
the  expectoration  of  much  tobacco-juice,  wherein  the  tramp 
successfully  held  his  own,  even  when  a  socialist  workman 
sneered,  "There  is  no  god  but  the  Unknowable,  and  Her 
bert  Spencer  is  his  prophet."  Martin  was  puzzled  as  to 
what  the  discussion  was  about,  but  when  he  rode  on  to  the 
library  he  carried  with  him  a  new-born  interest  in  Herbert 
Spencer,  and  because  of  the  frequency  with  which  the 

106 


MARTIN  EDEN  107 

tramp  had  mentioned  "First  Principles,"  Martin  drew  out 
that  volume. 

So  the  great  discovery  began.  Once  before  he  had  tried 
Spencer,  and  choosing  the  "Principles  of  Psychology"  to 
begin  with,  he  had  failed  as  abjectly  as  he  had  failed  with 
Madam  Blavatsky.  There  had  been  no  understanding  the 
book,  and  he  had  returned  it  unread.  But  this  night, 
after  algebra  and  physics,  and  an  attempt  at  a  sonnet,  he 
got  into  bed  and  opened  "First  Principles."  Morning 
found  him  still  reading.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to 
sleep.  Nor  did  he  write  that  day.  He  lay  on  the  bed  till 
his  body  grew  tired,  when  he  tried  the  hard  floor,  reading 
on  his  back,  the  book  held  in  the  air  above  him,  or  changing 
from  side  to  side.  He  slept  that  night,  and  did  his  writing 
next  morning,  and  then  the  book  tempted  him  and  he  fell, 
reading  all  afternoon,  oblivious  to  everything  and  oblivious 
to  the  fact  that  that  was  the  afternoon  Ruth  gave  to  him. 
His  first  consciousness  of  the  immediate  world  about  him 
was  when  Bernard  Higginbotham  jerked  open  the  door 
and  demanded  to  know  if  he  thought  they  were  running 
a  restaurant. 

Martin  Eden  had  been  mastered  by  curiosity  all  his  days. 
He  wanted  to  know,  and  it  was  this  desire  that  had  sent 
him  adventuring  over  the  world.  But  he  was  now  learn 
ing  from  Spencer  that  he  never  had  known,  and  that  he 
never  could  have  known  had  he  continued  his  sailing  and 
wandering  forever.  He  had  merely  skimmed  over  the 
surface  of  things,  observing  detached  phenomena,  accumu 
lating  fragments  of  facts,  making  superficial  little  general 
izations  —  and  all  and  everything  quite  unrelated  in  a 
capricious  and  disorderly  world  of  whim  and  chance.  The 
mechanism  of  the  flight  of  birds  he  had  watched  and 
reasoned  about  with  understanding  ;  but  it  had  never 
entered  his  head  to  try  to  explain  the  process  whereby 
birds,  as  organic  flying  mechanisms,  had  been  developed.  He 
had  never  dreamed  there  was  such  a  process.  That  birds 
should  have  come  to  be,  was  unguessed.  They  always  had 
been.  They  just  happened. 

And  as  it  was  with  birds,  so  had  it  been  with  everything. 
His  ignorant  and  unprepared  attempts  at  philosophy  had 


108  MARTIN  EDEN 

been  fruitless.  The  mediaeval  metaphysics  of  Kant  had 
given  him  the  key  to  nothing,  and  had  served  the  sole  pur 
pose  of  making  him  doubt  his  own  intellectual  powers.  In 
similar  manner  his  attempt  to  study  evolution  had  been 
confined  to  a  hopelessly  technical  volume  by  Romanes. 
He  had  understood  nothing,  and  the  only  idea  he  had 
gathered  was  that  evolution  was  a  dry-as-dust  theory,  of  a 
lot  of  little  men  possessed  of  huge  and  unintelligible  vocab 
ularies-  And  now  he  learned  that  evolution  was  no  mere 
theory  but  an  accepted  process  of  development;  that 
scientists  no  longer  disagreed  about  it,  their  only  differ 
ences  being  over  the  method  of  evolution. 

And  here  was  the  man  Spencer,  organizing  all  knowledge 
for  him,  reducing  everything  to  unity,  elaborating  ultimate 
realities,  and  presenting  to  his  startled  gaze  a  universe  so 
concrete  of  realization  that  it  was  like  the  model  of  a  ship 
such  as  sailors  make  and  put  into  glass  bottles.  There  was 
no  caprice,  no  chance.  All  was  law.  It  was  in  obedience 
to  law  that  the  bird  flew,  and  it  was  in  obedience  to  the 
same  law  that  fermenting  slime  had  writhed  and  squirmed 
and  put  out  legs  and  wings  and  become  a  bird. 

Martin  had  ascended  from  pitch  to  pitch  of  intellectual 
living,  and  here  he  was  at  a  higher  pitch  than  ever.  All 
the  hidden  things  were  laying  their  secrets  bare.  He 
was  drunken  with  comprehension.  At  night,  asleep,  he 
lived  with  the  gods  in  colossal  nightmare;  and  awake,  in 
the  day,  he  went  around  like  a  somnambulist,  with  absent 
stare,  gazing  upon  the  world  he  had  just  discovered.  At 
table  he  failed  to  hear  the  conversation  about  petty  and 
ignoble  things,  his  eager  mind  seeking  out  and  following 
cause  and  effect  in  everything  before  him.  In  the  meat 
on  the  platter  he  saw  the  shining  sun  and  traced  its 
energy  back  through  all  its  transformations  to  its  source  a 
hundred  million  miles  away,  or  traced  its  energy  ahead  to 
the  moving  muscles  in  his  arms  that  enabled  him  to  cut  the 
meat,  and  to  the  brain  wherewith  he  willed  the  muscles 
to  move  to  cut  the  meat,  until,  with  inward  gaze,  he  saw 
the  same  sun  shining  in  his  brain.  He  was  entranced  by 
illumination,  and  did  not  hear  the  "  Bughouse,"  whispered 


MARTIN  EDEN  109 

by  Jim,  nor  see  the  anxiety  on  his  sister's  face,  nor  notice 
the  rotary  motion  of  Bernard  Higginbotham's  finger, 
whereby  he  imparted  the  suggestion  of  wheels  revolving 
in  his  brother-in-law's  head. 

What,  in  a  way,  most  profoundly  impressed  Martin, 
was  the  correlation  of  knowledge  —  of  all  knowledge. 
He  had  been  curious  to  know  things,  and  whatever  he  ac 
quired  he  had  filed  away  in  separate  memory  compart 
ments  in  his  brain.  Thus,  on  the  subject  of  sailing  he 
had  an  immense  store.  On  the  subject  of  woman  he  had 
a  fairly  large  store.  But  these  two  subjects  had  been  un 
related.  Between  the  two  memory  compartments  there 
had  been  no  connection.  That,  in  the  fabric  of  knowl 
edge,  there  should  be  any  connection  whatever  between  a 
woman  with  hysterics  and  a  schooner  carrying  a  weather- 
helm  or  heaving  to  in  a  gale,  would  have  struck  him  as 
ridiculous  and  impossible.  But  Herbert  Spencer  had 
shown  him  not  only  that  it  was  not  ridiculous,  but  that  it 
was  impossible  for  there  to  be  no  connection.  All  things 
were  related  to  all  other  things  from  the  farthermost  star 
in  the  wastes  of  space  to  the  myriads  of  atoms  in  the  grain 
of  sand  under  one's  foot.  This  new  concept  was  a  per 
petual  amazement  to  Martin,  and  he  found  himself  en 
gaged  continually  in  tracing  the  relationship  between  all 
things  under  the  sun  and  on  the  other  side  of  the  sun. 
He  drew  up  lists  of  the  most  incongruous  things  and 
was  unhappy  until  he  succeeded  in  establishing  kinship 
between  them  all  —  kinship  between  love,  poetry,  earth 
quake,  fire,  rattlesnakes,  rainbows,  precious  gems,  mon 
strosities,  sunsets,  the  roaring  of  lions,  illuminating  gas, 
cannibalism,  beauty,  murder,  lovers,  fulcrums,  and  to 
bacco.  Thus,  he  unified  the  universe  and  held  it  up 
and  looked  at  it,  or  wandered  through  its  byways  and 
alleys  and  jungles,  not  as  a  terrified  traveller  in  the  thick 
of  mysteries  seeking  an  unknown  goal,  but  observing  and 
charting  and  becoming  familiar  with  all  there  was  to 
know.  And  the  more  he  knew,  the  more  passionately  he 
admired  the  universe,  and  life,  and  his  own  life  in  the 
midst  of  it  all. 


110  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  You  fool !  "  he  cried  at  his  image  in  the  looking-glass. 
"  You  wanted  to  write,  and  you  tried  to  write,  and  you 
had  nothing  in  you  to  write  about.  What  did  you 
have  in  you  ?  —  some  childish  notions,  a  few  half-baked 
sentiments,  a  lot  of  undigested  beauty,  a  great  black  mass 
of  ignorance,  a  heart  filled  to  bursting  with  love,  and  an 
ambition  as  big  as  your  love  and  as  futile  as  your  igno 
rance.  And  you  wanted  to  write!  Why,  you're  just  on 
the  edge  of  beginning  to  get  something  in  you  to  write 
about.  You  wanted  to  create  beauty,  but  how  could  you 
when  you  knew  nothing  about  the  nature  of  beauty  ? 
You  wanted  to  write  about  life  when  you  knew  nothing 
of  the  essential  characteristics  of  life.  You  wanted  to 
write  about  the  world  and  the  scheme  of  existence  when 
the  world  was  a  Chinese  puzzle  to  you  and  all  that  you 
could  have  written  would  have  been  about  what  you  did 
not  know  of  the  scheme  of  existence.  But  cheer  up, 
Martin,  my  boy.  You'll  write  yet.  You  know  a  little,  a 
very  little,  and  you're  on  the  right  road  now  to  know 
more.  Some  day,  if  you're  lucky,  you  may  come  pretty 
close  to  knowing  all  that  may  be  known.  Then  you  will 
write." 

He  brought  his  great  discovery  to  Ruth,  sharing  with 
her  all  his  joy  and  wonder  in  it.  But  she  did  not  seem  to 
be  so  enthusiastic  over  it.  She  tacitly  accepted  it  and,  in 
a  way,  seemed  aware  of  it  from  her  own  studies.  It  did 
not  stir  her  deeply,  as  it  did  him,  and  he  would  have  been 
surprised  had  he  not  reasoned  it  out  that  it  was  not  new 
and  fresh  to  her  as  it  was  to  him.  Arthur  and  Norman, 
he  found,  believed  in  evolution  and  had  read  Spencer, 
though  it  did  not  seem  to  have  made  any  vital  impression 
upon  them,  while  the  young  fellow  with  the  glasses  and 
the  mop  of  hair,  Will  Olney,  sneered  disagreeably  at 
Spencer  and  repeated  the  epigram,  "  There  is  no  god  but 
the  Unknowable,  and  Herbert  Spencer  is  his  prophet." 

But  Martin  forgave  him  the  sneer,  for  he  had  begun  to 
discover  that  Olney  was  not  in  love  with  Ruth.  Later, 
he  was  dumfounded  to  learn  from  various  little  happen 
ings  not  only  that  Olney  did  not  care  for  Ruth,  but  that 


MARTIN  EDEN  111 

he  had  a  positive  dislike  for  her.  Martin  could  not  under 
stand  this.  It  was  a  bit  of  phenomena  that  he  could  not 
correlate  with  all  the  rest  of  the  phenomena  in  the  uni 
verse.  But  nevertheless  he  felt  sorry  for  the  young  fel 
low  because  of  the  great  lack  in  his  nature  that  prevented 
him  from  a  proper  appreciation  of  Ruth's  fineness  and 
beauty.  They  rode  out  into  the  hills  several  Sundays 
on  their  wheels,  and  Martin  had  ample  opportunity  to  ob 
serve  the  armed  truce  that  existed  between  Ruth  and 
Olney.  The  latter  chummed  with  Norman,  throwing 
Arthur  and  Martin  into  company  with  Ruth,  for  which 
Martin  was  duly  grateful. 

Those  Sundays  were  great  days  for  Martin,  greatest  be 
cause  he  was  with  Ruth,  and  great,  also,  because  they 
were  putting  him  more  on  a  par  with  the  young  men  of 
her  class.  In  spite  of  their  long  years  of  disciplined  edu 
cation,  he  was  finding  himself  their  intellectual  equal,  and 
the  hours  spent  with  them  in  conversation  was  so  much 
practice  for  him  in  the  use  of  the  grammar  he  had  studied 
so  hard.  He  had  abandoned  the  etiquette  books,  falling 
back  upon  observation  to  show  him  the  right  things  to  do. 
Except  when  carried  away  by  his  enthusiasm,  he  was 
always  on  guard,  keenly  watchful  of  their  actions  and 
learning  their  little  courtesies  and  refinements  of  conduct. 

The  fact  that  Spencer  was  very  little  read  was  for  some 
time  a  source  of  surprise  to  Martin.  "  Herbert  Spencer," 
said  the  man  at  the  desk  in  the  library,  "oh,  yes,  a 
great  mind."  But  the  man  did  not  seem  to  know  any 
thing  of  the  content  of  that  great  mind.  One  evening, 
at  dinner,  when  Mr.  Butler  was  there,  Martin  turned  the 
conversation  upon  Spencer.  Mr.  Morse  bitterly  arraigned 
the  English  philosopher's  agnosticism,  but  confessed  that 
he  had  not  read  "First  Principles";  while  Mr.  Butler 
stated  that  he  had  no  patience  with  Spencer,  had  never 
read  a  line  of  him,  and  had  managed  to  get  along  quite 
well  without  him.  Doubts  arose  in  Martin's  mind,  and 
had  he  been  less  strongly  individual  he  would  have  ac 
cepted  the  general  opinion  and  given  Herbert  Spencer  up. 
As  it  was,  he  found  Spencer's  explanation  of  things  con- 


112  MARTIN  EDEN 

vincing  ;  and,  as  he  phrased  it  to  himself,  to  give  up 
Spencer  would  be  equivalent  to  a  navigator  throwing  the 
compass  and  chronometer  overboard.  So  Martin  went  on 
into  a  thorough  study  of  evolution,  mastering  more  and 
more  the  subject  himself,  and  being  convinced  by  the  cor 
roborative  testimony  of  a  thousand  independent  writers. 
The  more  he  studied,  the  more  vistas  he  caught  of  fields 
of  knowledge  yet  unexplored,  and  the  regret  that  days 
were  only  twenty-four  hours  long  became  a  chronic  com 
plaint  with  him. 

One  day,  because  the  days  were  so  short,  he  decided  to 
give  up  algebra  and  geometry.  Trigonometry  he  had  not 
even  attempted.  Then  he  cut  chemistry  from  his  study- 
list,  retaining  only  physics. 

"  I  am  not  a  specialist,"  he  said,  in  defence,  to  Ruth. 
"  Nor  am  I  going  to  try  to  be  a  specialist.  There  are  too 
many  special  fields  for  any  one  man,  in  a  whole  lifetime, 
to  master  a  tithe  of  them.  I  must  pursue  general  knowl 
edge.  When  I  need  the  work  of  specialists,  I  shall  refer 
to  their  books." 

"  But  that  is  not  like  having  the  knowledge  yourself," 
she  protested. 

"  But  it  is  unnecessary  to  have  it.  We  profit  from  the 
work  of  the  specialists.  That's  what  they  are  for. 
When  I  came  in,  I  noticed  the  chimney-sweeps  at  work. 
They're  specialists,  and  when  they  get  done,  you  will  en 
joy  clean  chimneys  without  knowing  anything  about  the 
construction  of  chimneys." 

"  That's  far-fetched,  I  am  afraid." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously,  and  he  felt  a  reproach  in 
her  gaze  and  manner.  But  he  was  convinced  of  the  right- 
ness  of  his  position. 

"  All  thinkers  on  general  subjects,  the  greatest  minds  in 
the  world,  in  fact,  rely  on  the  specialists.  Herbert  Spen 
cer  did  that.  He  generalized  upon  the  findings  of  thou 
sands  of  investigators.  He  would  have  had  to  live  a 
thousand  lives  in  order  to  do  it  all  himself.  And  so 
with  Darwin.  He  took  advantage  of  all  that  had  been 
learned  by  the  florists  and  cattle-breeders." 


MARTIN  EDEN  113 

"  You're  right,  Martin,"  Olney  said.  "  You  know  what 
you're  after,  and  Ruth  doesn't.  She  doesn't  know  what 
she  is  after  for  herself  even. 

"  —  Oh,  yes,"  Olney  rushed  on,  heading  off  her  objection, 
"  I  know  you  call  it  general  culture.  But  it  doesn't  mat 
ter  what  you  study  if  you  want  general  culture.  You  can 
study  French,  or  you  can  study  German,  or  cut  them  both 
out  and  study  Esperanto,  you'll  get  the  culture  tone  just 
the  same.  You  can  study  Greek  or  Latin,  too,  for  the 
same  purpose,  though  it  will  never  be  any  use  to  you.  It 
will  be  culture,  though.  Why,  Ruth  studied  Saxon,  be 
came  clever  in  it,  —  that  was  two  years  ago, —  and  all  that 
she  remembers  of  it  now  is  *  Whan  that  sweet  Aprile  with 
his  schowers  soote'  —  isn't  that  the  way  it  goes  ? 

"  But  it's  given  you  the  culture  tone  just  the  same,"  he 
laughed,  again  heading  her  off.  "  I  know.  We  were  in 
the  same  classes." 

"  But  you  speak  of  culture  as  if  it  should  be  a  means  to 
something,"  Ruth  cried  out.  Her  eyes  were  flashing,  and 
in  her  cheeks  were  two  spots  of  color.  "  Culture  is  the 
end  in  itself." 

"  But  that  is  not  what  Martin  wants." 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"  What  do  you  want,  Martin  ?  "  Olney  demanded,  turn 
ing  squarely  upon  him. 

Martin  felt  very  uncomfortable,  and  looked  entreaty  at 
Ruth. 

"Yes,  what  do  you  want?"  Ruth  asked.  "That  will 
settle  it." 

"  Yes,  of  course,  I  want  culture,"  Martin  faltered.  "  I 
love  beauty,  and  culture  will  give  me  a  finer  and  keener 
appreciation  of  beauty." 

She  nodded  her  head  and  looked  triumph. 

"  Rot,  and  you  know  it,"  was  Olney's  comment. 
**  Martin's  after  career,  not  culture.  It  just  happens  that 
culture,  in  his  case,  is  incidental  to  career.  If  he  wanted 
to  be  a  chemist,  culture  would  be  unnecessary.  Martin 
wants  to  write,  but  he's  afraid  to  say  so  because  it  will 
put  you  in  the  wrong. 


114  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  And  why  does  Martin  want  to  write  ?  "  he  went  on. 
"Because  he  isn't  rolling  in  wealth.  Why  do  you  fill 
your  head  with  Saxon  and  general  culture  ?  Because  you 
don't  have  to  make  your  way  in  the  world.  Your  father 
sees  to  that.  He  buys  your  clothes  for  you,  and  all  the 
rest.  What  rotten  good  is  our  education,  yours  and  mine 
and  Arthur's  and  Norman's?  We're  soaked  in  general 
culture,  and  if  our  daddies  went  broke  to-day,  we'd  be 
falling  down  to-morrow  on  teachers'  examinations.  The 
best  job  you  could  get,  Ruth,  would  be  a  country  school 
or  music  teacher  in  a  girls'  boarding-school." 

"  And  pray  what  would  you  do  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  a  blessed  thing.  I  could  earn  a  dollar  and  a  half 
a  day,  common  labor,  and  I  might  get  in  as  instructor  in 
Hanley's  cramming  joint  —  I  say  might,  mind  you,  and  I 
might  be  chucked  out  at  the  end  of  the  week  for  sheer 
inability." 

Martin  followed  the  discussion  closely,  and  while  he 
was  convinced  that  Olney  was  right,  he  resented  the 
rather  cavalier  treatment  he  accorded  Ruth.  A  new  con 
ception  of  love  formed  in  his  mind  as  he  listened.  Reason 
had  nothing  to  do  with  love.  It  mattered  not  whether 
the  woman  he  loved  reasoned  correctly  or  incorrectly. 
Love  was  above  reason.  If  it  just  happened  that  she  did 
not  fully  appreciate  his  necessity  for  a  career,  that  did  not 
make  her  a  bit  less  lovable.  She  was  all  lovable,  and 
what  she  thought  had  nothing  to  do  with  her  lovableness. 

"  What's  that  ? "  he  replied  to  a  question  from  Olney 
that  broke  in  upon  his  train  of  thought. 

"I  was  saying  that  I  hoped  you  wouldn't  be  fool 
enough  to  tackle  Latin." 

"  But  Latin  is  more  than  culture,"  Ruth  broke  in.  "  It 
is  equipment." 

"  Well,  are  you  going  to  tackle  it  ?  "  Olney  persisted. 

Martin  was  sore  beset.  He  could  see  that  Ruth  was 
hanging  eagerly  upon  his  answer. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  won't  have  time,"  he  said  finally.  "  I'd 
like  to,  but  I  won't  have  time." 

"You  see,  Martin's  not  seeking  culture,"  Olney  ex 
ulted.  "  He's  trying  to  get  somewhere,  to  do  something." 


MARTIN  EDEN  115 

"Oh,  but  it's  mental  training.  It's  nrind  discipline. 
It's  what  makes  disciplined  minds."  Ruth  looked  ex 
pectantly  at  Martin,  as  if  waiting  for  him  to  change  his 
judgment.  "You  know,  the  foot-ball  players  have  to 
train  before  the  big  game.  And  that  is  what  Latin  does 
for  the  thinker.  It  trains." 

"  Rot  and  bosh !  That's  what  they  told  us  when  we 
were  kids.  But  there  is  one  thing  they  didn't  tell  us 
then.  They  let  us  find  it  out  for  ourselves  afterwards." 
Olney  paused  for  effect,  then  added,  "  And  what  they 
didn't  tell  us  was  that  every  gentleman  should  have 
studied  Latin,  but  that  no  gentleman  should  know 
Latin." 

"  Now  that's  unfair,"  Ruth  cried.  "  I  knew  you  were 
turning  the  conversation  just  in  order  to  get  off  some 
thing." 

"It's  clever  all  right,"  was  the  retort,  "but  it's  fair, 
too.  The  only  men  who  know  their  Latin  are  the  apothe 
caries,  the  lawyers,  and  the  Latin  professors.  And  if 
Martin  wants  to  be  one  of  them,  I  miss  my  guess.  But 
what's  all  that  got  to  do  with  Herbert  Spencer  anyway  ? 
Martin's  just  discovered  Spencer,  and  he's  wild  over  him. 
Why  ?  Because  Spencer  is  taking  him  somewhere.  Spen 
cer  couldn't  take  me  anywhere,  nor  you.  We  haven't 
got  anywhere  to  go.  You'll  get  married  some  day, 
and  I'll  have  nothing  to  do  but  keep  track  of  the  lawyers 
and  business  agents  who  will  take  care  of  the  money  my 
father's  going  to  leave  me." 

Olney  got  up  to  go,  but  turned  at  the  door  and  deliv 
ered  a  parting  shot. 

"  You  leave  Martin  alone,  Ruth.  He  knows  what's 
best  for  himself.  Look  at  what  he's  done  already.  He 
makes  me  sick  sometimes,  sick  and  ashamed  of  myself. 
He  knows  more  now  about  the  world,  and  life,  and  man's 
place,  and  all  the  rest,  than  Arthur,  or  Norman,  or  I,  or 
you,  too,  for  that  matter,  and  in  spite  of  all  our  Latin, 
and  French,  and  Saxon,  and  culture." 

"  But  Ruth  is  my  teacher,"  Martin  answered  chival 
rously.  "  She  is  responsible  for  what  little  I  have  learned." 


116  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  Rats!"  Olney  looked  at  Ruth,  and  his  expression  was 
malicious.  "  I  suppose  you'll  be  telling  me  next  that  you 
read  Spencer  on  her  recommendation —  only  you  didn't. 
And  she  doesn't  know  anything  more  about  Darwin  and 
evolution  than  I  do  about  King  Solomon's  mines.  What's 
that  jawbreaker  definition  about  something  or  other,  of 
Spencer's,  that  you  sprang  on  us  the  other  day  —  that 
indefinite,  incoherent  homogeneity  thing?  Spring  it  on 
her,  and  see  if  she  understands  a  word  of  it.  That  isn't 
culture,  you  see.  Well,  tra  la,  and  if  you  tackle  Latin, 
Martin,  I  won't  have  any  respect  for  you." 

And  all  the  while,  interested  in  the  discussion,  Martin 
had  been  aware  of  an  irk  in  it  as  well.  It  was  about 
studies  and  lessons,  dealing  with  the  rudiments  of  knowl 
edge,  and  the  schoolboyish  tone  of  it  conflicted  with  the 
big  things  that  were  stirring  in  him  —  with  the  grip  upon 
life  that  was  even  then  crooking  his  fingers  like  eagle's 
talons,  with  the  cosmic  thrills  that  made  him  ache,  and 
with  the  inchoate  consciousness  of  mastery  of  it  all.  He 
likened  himself  to  a  poet,  wrecked  on  the  shores  of  a 
strange  land,  filled  with  power  of  beauty,  stumbling  and 
stammering  and  vainly  trying  to  sing  in  the  rough,  bar 
baric  tongue  of  his  brethren  in  the  new  land.  And  so 
with  him.  He  was  alive,  painfully  alive,  to  the  great 
universal  things,  and  yet  he  was  compelled  to  potter  and 
grope  among  schoolboy  topics  and  debate  whether  or  not 
he  should  study  Latin. 

"  What  in  hell  has  Latin  to  do  with  it  ?  "  he  demanded 
before  his  mirror  that  night.  "  I  wish  dead  people  would 
stay  dead.  Why  should  I  and  the  beauty  in  me  be  ruled 
by  the  dead  ?  Beauty  is  alive  and  everlasting.  Languages 
come  and  go.  They  are  the  dust  of  the  dead." 

And  his  next  thought  was  that  he  had  been  phrasing 
his  ideas  very  well,  and  he  went  to  bed  wondering  why  he 
could  not  talk  in  similar  fashion  when  he  was  with  Ruth. 
He  was  only  a  schoolboy,  with  a  schoolboy's  tongue,  when 
he  was  in  her  presence. 

"  Give  me  time,"  he  said  aloud.     "  Only  give  me  time." 

Time!     Time!     Time!  was  his  unending  plaint. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IT  was  not  because  of  Olney,  but  in  spite  of  Ruth,  and 
his  love  for  Ruth,  that  he  finally  decided  not  to  take  up 
Latin.  His  money  meant  time.  There  was  so  much  that 
was  more  important  than  Latin,  so  many  studies  that  clam 
ored  with  imperious  voices.  And  he  must  write.  He  must 
earn  money.  He  had  had  no  acceptances.  Twoscore  of 
manuscripts  were  travelling  the  endless  round  of  the  maga 
zines.  How  did  the  others  do  it  ?  He  spent  long  hours 
in  the  free  reading-room,  going  over  what  others  had 
written,  studying  their  work  eagerly  and  critically,  com 
paring  it  with  his  own,  and  wondering,  wondering,  about 
the  secret  trick  they  had  discovered  which  enabled  them 
to  sell  their  work. 

He  was  amazed  at  the  immense  amount  of  printed  stuff 
that  was  dead.  No  light,  no  life,  no  color,  was  shot 
through  it.  There  was  no  breath  of  life  in  it,  and  yet  it 
sold,  at  two  cents  a  word,  twenty  dollars  a  thousand  —  the 
newspaper  clipping  had  said  so.  He  was  puzzled  by 
countless  short  stories,  written  lightly  and  cleverly  he 
confessed,  but  withou-t  vitality  or  reality.  Life  was  so 
strange  and  wonderful,  filled  with  an  immensity  of  prob 
lems,  of  dreams,  and  of  heroic  toils,  and  yet  these  stories 
dealt  only  with  the  commonplaces  of  life.  He  felt  the 
stress  and  strain  of  life,  its  fevers  and  sweats  and  wild 
insurgences — surely  this  was  the  stuff  to  write  about! 
He  wanted  to  glorify  the  leaders  of  forlorn  hopes,  the  mad 
lovers,  the  giants  that  fought  under  stress  and  strain,  amid 
terror  and  tragedy,  making  life  crackle  with  the  strength 
of  their  endeavor.  And  yet  the  magazine  short  stories 
seemed  intent  on  glorifying  the  Mr.  Butlers,  the  sordid 
dollar-chasers,  and  the  commonplace  little  love  affairs  of 
commonplace  little  men  and  women.  Was  it  because  the 
editors  of  the  magazines  were  commonplace?  he  demanded. 

117 


118  MARTIN  EDEN 

Or  were  they  afraid  of  life,  these  writers  and  editors  and 
readers  ? 

But  his  chief  trouble  was  that  he  did  not  know  any 
editors  or  writers.  And  not  merely  did  he  not  know  any 
writers,  but  he  did  not  know  anybody  who  had  ever  at 
tempted  to  write.  There  was  nobody  to  tell  him,  to  hint 
to  him,  to  give  him  the  least  word  of  advice.  He  began 
to  doubt  that  editors  were  real  men.  They  seemed  cogs 
in  a  machine.  That  was  what  it  was,  a  machine.  He 
poured  his  soul  into  stories,  articles,  and  poems,  and  in 
trusted  them  to  the  machine.  He  folded  them  just  so,  put 
the  proper  stamps  inside  the  long  envelope  along  with  the 
manuscript,  sealed  the  envelope,  put  more  stamps  outside, 
and  dropped  it  into  the  mail-box.  It  travelled  across  the 
continent,  and  after  a  certain  lapse  of  time  the  postman 
returned  him  the  manuscript  in  another  long  envelope, 
on  the  outside  of  which  were  the  stamps  he  had  en 
closed.  There  was  no  human  editor  at  the  other  end,  but 
a  mere  cunning  arrangement  of  cogs  that  changed  the 
manuscript  from  one  envelope  to  another  and  stuck  on  the 
stamps.  It  was  like  the  slot  machines  wherein  one 
dropped  pennies,  and,  with  a  metallic  whirl  of  machinery 
had  delivered  to  him  a  stick  of  chewing-gum  or  a  tablet 
of  chocolate.  It  depended  upon  which  slot  one  dropped 
the  penny  in,  whether  he  got  chocolate  or  gum.  And  so 
with  the  editorial  machine.  One  slot  brought  checks  and 
the  other  brought  rejection  slips.  So  far  he  had  found 
only  the  latter  slot. 

It  was  the  rejection  slips  that  completed  the  horrible 
machinelikeness  of  the  process.  These  slips  were  printed 
in  stereotyped  forms  and  he  had  received  hundreds  of 
them  —  as  many  as  a  dozen  or  more  on  each  of  his  earlier 
manuscripts.  If  he  had  received  one  line,  one  personal 
line,  along  with  one  rejection  of  all  his  rejections,  he 
would  have  been  cheered.  But  not  one  editor  had  given 
that  proof  of  existence.  And  he  could  conclude  only  that 
there  were  no  warm  human  men  at  the  other  end,  only 
mere  cogs,  well  oiled  and  running  beautifully  in  the 
machine. 


MARTIN  EDEN  119 

He  was  a  good  fighter,  whole-souled  and  stubborn,  and 
he  would  have  been  content  to  continue  feeding  the  ma 
chine  for  years;  but  he  was  bleeding  to  death,  and  not 
years  but  weeks  would  determine  the  fight.  Each  week 
his  board  bill  brought  him  nearer  destruction,  while  the 
postage  on  forty  manuscripts  bled  him  almost  as  severely. 
He  no  longer  bought  books,  and  he  economized  in  petty 
ways  and  sought  to  delay  the  inevitable  end ;  though  he 
did  not  know  how  to  economize,  and  brought  the  end 
nearer  by  a  week  when  he  gave  his  sister  Marian  five 
dollars  for  a  dress. 

He  struggled  in  the  dark,  without  advice,  without 
encouragement,  and  in  the  teeth  of  discouragement.  Even 
Gertrude  was  beginning  to  look  askance.  At  first  she  had 
tolerated  with  sisterly  fondness  what  she  conceived  to  be 
his  foolishness;  but  now,  out  of  sisterly  solicitude,  she 
grew  anxious.  To  her  it  seemed  that  his  foolishness  was 
becoming  a  madness.  Martin  knew  this  and  suffered  more 
keenly  from  it  than  from  the  open  and  nagging  contempt 
of  Bernard  Higginbotham.  Martin  had  faith  in  himself, 
but  he  was  alone  in  this  faith.  Not  even  Ruth  had  faith. 
She  had  wanted  him  to  devote  himself  to  study,  and, 
though  she  had  not  openly  disapproved  of  his  writing, 
she  had  never  approved. 

He  had  never  offered  to  show  her  his  work.  A  fas 
tidious  delicacy  had  prevented  him.  Besides,  she  had 
been  studying  heavily  at  the  university,  and  he  felt 
averse  to  robbing  her  of  her  time.  But  when  she  had 
taken  her  degree,  she  asked  him  herself  to  let  her  see  some 
thing  of  what  he  had  been  doing.  Martin  was  elated  and 
diffident.  Here  was  a  judge.  She  was  a  bachelor  of  arts. 
She  had  studied  literature  under  skilled  instructors.  Per 
haps  the  editors  were  capable  judges,  too.  But  she  would 
be  different  from  them.  She  would  not  hand  him  a 
stereotyped  rejection  slip,  nor  would  she  inform  him  that 
lack  of  preference  for  his  work  did  not  necessarily  imply 
lack  of  merit  in  his  work.  She  would  talk,  a  warm  human 
being,  in  her  quick,  bright  way,  and,  most  important  of  all, 
she  would  catch  glimpses  of  the  real  Martin  Eden.  In  his 


120  MARTIN  EDEN 

work  she  would  discern  what  his  heart  and  soul  were  like, 
and  she  would  come  to  understand  something,  a  little 
something,  of  the  stuff  of  his  dreams  and  the  strength  of 
his  power. 

Martin  gathered  together  a  number  of  carbon  copies  of 
his  short  stories,  hesitated  a  moment,  then  added  his  "  Sea 
Lyrics."  They  mounted  their  wheels  on  a  late  June  after 
noon  and  rode  for  the  hills.  It  was  the  second  time  he 
had  been  out  with  her  alone,  and  as  they  rode  along 
through  the  balmy  warmth,  just  chilled  by  the  sea-breeze 
to  refreshing  coolness,  he  was  profoundly  impressed  by 
the  fact  that  it  was  a  very  beautiful  and  well-ordered 
world  and  that  it  was  good  to  be  alive  and  to  love.  They 
left  their  wheels  by  the  roadside  and  climbed  to  the  brown 
top  of  an  open  knoll  where  the  sunburnt  grass  breathed  a 
harvest  breath  of  dry  sweetness  and  content. 

"  Its  work  is  done,"  Martin  said,  as  they  seated  them 
selves,  she  upon  his  coat,  and  he  sprawling  close  to  the 
warm  earth.  He  sniffed  the  sweetness  of  the  tawny  grass, 
which  entered  his  brain  and  set  his  thoughts  whirling  on 
from  the  particular  to  the  universal.  "  It  has  achieved  its 
reason  for  existence,"  he  went  on,  patting  the  dry  grass 
affectionately.  "  It  quickened  with  ambition  under  the 
dreary  downpour  of  last  winter,  fought  the  violent  early 
spring,  flowered,  and  lured  the  insects  and  the  bees,  scat 
tered  its  seeds,  squared  itself  with  its  duty  and  the  world, 
and  —  " 

"  Why  do  you  always  look  at  things  with  such  dread 
fully  practical  eyes?  "  she  interrupted. 

"  Because  I've  been  studying  evolution,  I  guess.  It's 
only  recently  that  I  got  my  eyesight,  if  the  truth  were 
told." 

"  But  it  seems  to  me  you  lose  sight  of  beauty  by  being 
so  practical,  that  you  destroy  beauty  like  the  boys  who 
catch  butterflies  and  rub  the  down  off  their  beautiful 
wings." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Beauty  has  significance,  but  I  never  knew  its  signifi 
cance  before.  I  just  accepted  beauty  as  something  mean- 


MARTIN  EDEN  121 

ingless,  as  something  that  was  just  beautiful  without 
rhyme  or  reason.  I  did  not  know  anything  about  beauty. 
But  now  I  know,  or,  rather,  am  just  beginning  to  know. 
This  grass  is  more  beautiful  to  me  now  that  I  know  why 
it  is  grass,  and  all  the  hidden  chemistry  of  sun  and  rain 
and  earth  that  makes  it  become  grass.  Why,  there  is 
romance  in  the  life-history  of  any  grass,  yes,  and  adven 
ture,  too.  The  very  thought  of  it  stirs  me.  When  I  think 
of  the  play  of  force  and  matter,  and  all  the  tremendous 
struggle  of  it,  I  feel  as  if  I  could  write  an  epic  on  the 
grass." 

"  How  well  you  talk,"  she  said  absently,  and  he  noted 
that  she  was  looking  at  him  in  a  searching  way. 

He  was  all  confusion  and  embarrassment  on  the  instant, 
the  blood  flushing  red  on  his  neck  and  brow. 

"  I  hope  I  am  learning  to  talk,"  he  stammered.  "  There 
seems  to  be  so  much  in  me  I  want  to  say.  But  it  is  all  so 
big.  I  can't  find  ways  to  say  what  is  really  in  me.  Some 
times  it  seems  to  me  that  all  the  world,  all  life,  everything, 
had  taken  up  residence  inside  of  me  and  was  clamoring  for 
me  to  be  the  spokesman.  I  feel  —  oh,  I  can't  describe  it 
— I  feel  the  bigness  of  it,  but  when  I  speak,  I  babble  like 
a  little  child.  It  is  a  great  task  to  transmute  feeling  and 
sensation  into  speech,  written  or  spoken,  that  will,  in  turn, 
in  him  who  reads  or  listens,  transmute  itself  back  into  the 
selfsame  feeling  and  sensation.  It  is  a  lordly  task.  See, 
I  bury  my  face  in  the  grass,  and  the  breath  I  draw  in 
through  my  nostrils  sets  me  quivering  with  a  thousand 
thoughts  and  fancies.  It  is  a  breath  of  the  universe  I  have 
breathed.  I  know  song  and  laughter,  and  success  and 
pain,  and  struggle  and  death;  and  I  see  visions  that  arise 
in  my  brain  somehow  out  of  the  scent  of  the  grass,  and  I 
would  like  to  tell  them  to  you,  to  the  world.  But  how 
can  I  ?  My  tongue  is  tied.  I  have  tried,  by  the  spoken 
word,  just  now,  to  describe  to  you  the  effect  on  me  of  the 
scent  of  the  grass.  But  I  have  not  succeeded.  I  have  no 
more  than  hinted  in  awkward  speech.  My  words  seem 
gibberish  to  me.  And  yet  I  am  stifled  with  desire  to  tell. 
Oh  !  —  "he  threw  up  his  hands  with  a  despairing  gesture 


122  MARTIN  EDEN 

— "it  is  impossible!  It  is  not  understandable!  It  is 
incommunicable !  " 

"  But  you  do  talk  well,"  she  insisted.  "  Just  think  how 
you  have  improved  in  the  short  time  I  have  known  you. 
Mr.  Butler  is  a  noted  public  speaker.  He  is  always  asked 
by  the  State  Committee  to  go  out  on  stump  during  cam 
paign.  Yet  you  talked  just  as  well  as  he  the  other  night 
at  dinner.  Only  he  was  more  controlled.  You  get  too  ex 
cited  ;  but  you  will  get  over  that  with  practice.  Why,  you 
would  make  a  good  public  speaker.  You  can  go  far — if 
you  want  to.  You  are  masterly.  You  can  lead  men,  I 
am  sure,  and  there  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  suc 
ceed  at  anything  you  set  your  hand  to,  just  as  you  have 
succeeded  with  grammar.  You  would  make  a  good  lawyer. 
You  should  shine  in  politics.  There  is  nothing  to  prevent 
you  from  making  as  great  a  success  as  Mr.  Butler  has  made. 
And  minus  the  dyspepsia,"  she  added  with  a  smile. 

They  talked  on;  she,  in  her  gently  persistent  way, 
returning  always  to  the  need  of  thorough  grounding  in  edu 
cation  and  to  the  advantages  of  Latin  as  part  of  the  founda 
tion  for  any  career.  She  drew  her  ideal  of  the  successful 
man,  and  it  was  largely  in  her  father's  image,  with  a  few 
unmistakable  lines  and  touches  of  color  from  the  image 
of  Mr.  Butler.  He  listened  eagerly,  with  receptive  ears, 
lying  on  his  back  and  looking  up  and  joying  in  each  move 
ment  of  her  lips  as  she  talked.  But  his  brain  was  not 
receptive.  There  was  nothing  alluring  in  the  pictures 
she  drew,  and  he  was  aware  of  a  dull  pain  of  disappoint 
ment  and  of  a  sharper  ache  of  love  for  her.  In  all  she 
said  there  was  no  mention  of  his  writing,  and  the  manu 
scripts  he  had  brought  to  read  lay  neglected  on  the 
ground. 

At  last,  in  a  pause,  he  glanced  at  the  sun,  measured  its 
height  above  the  horizon,  and  suggested  his  manuscripts 
by  picking  them  up. 

"  I  had  forgotten,"  she  said  quickly.  "  And  I  am  so 
anxious  to  hear." 

He  read  to  her  a  story,  one  that  he  flattered  himself  was 
among  his  very  best.  He  called  it  "  The  Wine  of  Life," 


MARTIN  EDEN  123 

and  the  wine  of  it,  that  had  stolen  into  his  brain  when  he 
wrote  it,  stole  into  his  brain  now  as  he  read  it.  There  was 
a  certain  magic  in  the  original  conception,  and  he  had 
adorned  it  with  more  magic  of  phrase  and  touch.  All  the 
old  fire  and  passion  with  which  he  had  written  it  were  re 
born  in  him,  and  he  was  swayed  and  swept  away  so  that 
he  was  blind  and  deaf  to  the  faults  of  it.  But  it  was  not 
so  with  Ruth.  Her  trained  ear  detected  the  weaknesses 
and  exaggerations,  the  overemphasis  of  the  tyro,  and  she 
was  instantly  aware  each  time  the  sentence-rhythm  tripped 
and  faltered.  She  scarcely  noted  the  rhythm  otherwise, 
except  when  it  became  too  pompous,  at  which  moments 
she  was  disagreeably  impressed  with  its  amateurishness. 
That  was  her  final  judgment  on  the  story  as  a  whole  — 
amateurish,  though  she  did  not  tell  him  so.  Instead,  when 
he  had  done,  she  pointed  out  the  minor  flaws  and  said  that 
she  liked  the  story* 

But  he  was  disappointed.  Her  criticism  was  just.  He 
acknowledged  that,  but  he  had  a  feeling  that  he  was  not 
sharing  his  work  with  her  for  the  purpose  of  schoolroom 
correction.  The  details  did  not  matter.  They  could  take 
care  of  themselves.  He  could  mend  them,  he  could  learn 
to  mend  them.  Out  of  life  he  had  captured  something 
big  and  attempted  to  imprison  it  in  the  story.  It  was  the 
big  thing  out  of  life  he  had  read  to  her,  not  sentence-struc 
ture  and  semicolons.  He  wanted  her  to  feel  with  him  this 
big  thing  that  was  his,  that  he  had  seen  with  his  own  eyes, 
grappled  with  his  own  brain,  and  placed  there  on  the  page 
with  his  own  hands  in  printed  words.  Well,  he  had  failed, 
was  his  secret  decision.  Perhaps  the  editors  were  right. 
He  had  felt  the  big  thing,  but  he  had  failed  to  transmute 
it.  He  concealed  his  disappointment,  and  joined  so  easily 
with  her  in  her  criticism  that  she  did  not  realize  that  deep 
down  in  him  was  running  a  strong  undercurrent  of  disa 
greement. 

"  This  next  thing  I've  called '  The  Pot',"  he  said,  unfold 
ing  the  manuscript.  "It  has  been  refused  by  four  or 
five  magazines  now,  but  still  I  think  it  is  good.  In  fact,  I 
don't  know  what  to  think  of  it,  except  that  I've  caught  some- 


124  MARTIN  EDEN 

thing  there.  Maybe  it  won't  affect  you  as  it  does  me. 
It's  a  short  thing  —  only  two  thousand  words." 

"How  dreadful !"  she  cried,  when  he  had  finished.  "It 
is  horrible,  unutterably  horrible  ! " 

He  noted  her  pale  face,  her  eyes  wide  and  tense,  and 
her  clenched  hands,  with  secret  satisfaction.  He  had  suc 
ceeded.  He  had  communicated  the  stuff  of  fancy  and 
feeling  from  out  of  his  brain.  It  had  struck  home.  No 
matter  whether  she  liked  it  or  not,  it  had  gripped  her  and 
mastered  her,  made  her  sit  there  and  listen  and  forget  details. 

"  It  is  life,"  he  said,  "  and  life  is  not  always  beautiful. 
And  yet,  perhaps  because  I  am  strangely  made,  I  find  some 
thing  beautiful  there.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  beauty  is 
tenfold  enhanced  because  it  is  there  —  " 

"But  why  couldn't  the  poor  woman  — "  she  broke  in 
disconnectedly.  Then  she  left  the  revolt  of  her  thought 
unexpressed  to  cry  out :  "  Oh  !  It  is  degrading  !  It  is  not 
nice  !  It  is  nasty  !  " 

For  the  moment  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  heart  stood 
still.  Nasty!  He  had  never  dreamed  it.  He  had  not 
meant  it.  The  whole  sketch  stood  before  him  in  letters 
of  fire,  and  in  such  blaze  of  illumination  he  sought  vainly 
for  nastiness.  Then  his  heart  began  to  beat  again.  He 
was  not  guilty. 

"  Why  didn't  you  select  a  nice  subject  ?  "  she  was  say 
ing.  "  We  know  there  are  nasty  things  in  the  world,  but 
that  is  no  reason  —  " 

She  talked  on  in  her  indignant  strain,  but  he  was  not 
following  her.  He  was  smiling  to  himself  as  he  looked  up 
into  her  virginal  face,  so  innocent,  so  penetratingly  inno 
cent,  that  its  purity  seemed  always  to  enter  into  him, 
driving  out  of  him  all  dross  and  bathing  him  in  some  ethe 
real  effulgence  that  was  as  cool  and  soft  and  velvety  as 
starshine.  We  know  there  are  nasty  things  in  the  world ! 
He  cuddled  to  him  the  notion  of  her  knowing,  and  chuckled 
over  it  as  a  love  joke.  The  next  moment,  in  a  flashing 
vision  of  multitudinous  detail,  he  sighted  the  whole  sea  of 
life's  nastiness  that  he  had  known  and  voyaged  over  and 
through,  and  he  forgave  her  for  not  understanding  the 


MARTIN  EDEN  125 

story.  It  was  through  no  fault  of  hers  that  she  could  not 
understand.  He  thanked  God  that  she  had  been  born  and 
sheltered  to  such  innocence.  But  he  knew  life,  its  foul 
ness  as  well  as  its  fairness,  its  greatness  in  spite  of  the 
slime  that  infested  it,  and  by  God  he  was  going  to  have 
his  say  on  it  to  the  world.  Saints  in  heaven  —  how  could 
they  be  anything  but  fair  and  pure?  No  praise  to  them. 
But  saints  in  slime — ah,  that  was  the  everlasting  wonder  ! 
That  was  what  made  life  worth  while.  To  see  moral 
grandeur  rising  out  of  cesspools  of  iniquity ;  to  rise  himself 
and  first  glimpse  beauty,  faint  and  far,  through  mud-drip 
ping  eyes ;  to  see  out  of  weakness,  and  frailty,  and  vicious- 
ness,  and  all  abysmal  brutishness,  arising  strength,  and 
truth,  and  high  spiritual  endowment  — 

He  caught  a  stray  sequence  of  sentences  she  was 
uttering. 

"  The  tone  of  it  all  is  low.  And  there  is  so  much  that 
is  high.  Take  '  In  Memoriam.' ': 

He  was  impelled  to  suggest "  Locksley  Hall,"  and  would 
have  done  so,  had  not  his  vision  gripped  him  again  and 
left  him  staring  at  her,  the  female  of  his  kind,  who,  out  of 
the  primordial  ferment,  creeping  and  crawling  up  the  vast 
ladder  of  life  for  a  thousand  thousand  centuries,  had  emerged 
on  the  topmost  rung,  having  become  one  Ruth,  pure,  and 
fair,  and  divine,  and  with  power  to  make  him  know  love, 
and  to  aspire  toward  purity,  and  to  desire  to  taste  divinity 
—  him,  Martin  Eden,  who,  too,  had  come  up  in  some  amaz 
ing  fashion  from  out  of  the  ruck  and  the  mire  and  the 
countless  mistakes  and  abortions  of  unending  creation. 
There  was  the  romance,  and  the  wonder,  and  the  glory. 
There  was  the  stun0  to  write,  if  he  could  only  find 
speech.  Saints  in  heaven  ! — They  were  only  saints  and 
could  not  help  themselves.  But  he  was  a  man. 

"  You  have  strength,"  he  could  hear  her  saying,  "  but 
it  is  untutored  strength." 

"  Like  a  bull  in  a  china  shop,"  he  suggested,  and  won 
a  smile. 

"And  you  must  develop  discrimination.  You  must 
consult  taste,  and  fineness,  and  tone." 


126  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  I  dare  too  much,"  he  muttered. 

She  smiled  approbation,  and  settled  herself  to  listen  to 
another  story. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you'll  make  of  this,"  he  said  apolo 
getically.  "  It's  a  funny  thing.  I'm  afraid  I  got  beyond 
my  depth  in  it,  but  my  intentions  were  good.  Don't  bother 
about  the  little  features  of  it.  Just  see  if  you  catch  the 
feel  of  the  big  thing  in  it.  It  is  big,  and  it  is  true, 
though  the  chance  is  large  that  I  have  failed  to  make  it 
intelligible." 

He  read,  and  as  he  read  he  watched  her.  At  last  he 
had  reached  her,  he  thought.  She  sat  without  movement, 
her  eyes  steadfast  upon  him,  scarcely  breathing,  caught 
up  and  out  of  herself,  he  thought,  by  the  witchery  of  the 
thing  he  had  created.  He  had  entitled  the  story  "  Adven 
ture,"  and  it  was  the  apotheosis  of  adventure  —  not  of 
the  adventure  of  the  story-books,  but  of  real  adventure, 
the  savage  taskmaster,  awful  of  punishment  and  awful  of 
reward,  faithless  and  whimsical,  demanding  terrible  pa 
tience  and  heartbreaking  days  and  nights  of  toil,  offering 
the  blazing  sunlight  glory  or  dark  death  at  the  end  of 
thirst  and  famine  or  of  the  long  drag  and  monstrous 
delirium  of  rotting  fever,  through  blood  and  sweat  and 
stinging  insects  leading  up  by  long  chains  of  petty  and 
ignoble  contacts  to  royal  culminations  and  lordly  achieve 
ments. 

It  was  this,  all  of  it,  and  more,  that  he  had  put  into  his 
story,  and  it  was  this,  he  believed,  that  warmed  her  as 
she  sat  and  listened.  Her  eyes  were  wide,  color  was  in 
her  pale  cheeks,  and  before  he  finished  it  seemed  to  him 
that  she  was  almost  panting.  Truly,  she  was  warmed; 
but  she  was  warmed,  not  by  the  story,  but  by  him.  She 
did  not  think  much  of  the  story ;  it  was  Martin's  intensity 
of  power,  the  old  excess  of  strength  that  seemed  to  pour 
from  his  body  and  on  and  over  her.  The  paradox  of  it 
was  that  it  was  the  story  itself  that  was  freighted  with 
his  power,  that  was  the  channel,  for  the  time  being, 
through  which  his  strength  poured  out  to  her.  She  was 
aware  only  of  the  strength,  and  not  of  the  medium,  and 


MARTIN  EDEN  127 

when  she  seemed  most  carried  away  by  what  he  had  writ 
ten,  in  reality  she  had  been  carried  away  by  something 
quite  foreign  to  it  —  by  a  thought,  terrible  and  perilous, 
that  had  formed  itself  unsummoned  in  her  brain.  She 
had  caught  herself  wondering  what  marriage  was  like, 
and  the  becoming  conscious  of  the  waywardness  and  ar 
dor  of  the  thought  had  terrified  her.  It  was  unmaidenly. 
It  was  not  like  her.  She  had  never  been  tormented  by 
womanhood,  and  she  had  lived  in  a  dreamland  of  Tenny- 
sonian  poesy,  dense  even  to  the  full  significance  of  that 
delicate  master's  delicate  allusions  to  the  grossnesses  that 
intrude  upon  the  relations  of  queens  and  knights.  She 
had  been  asleep,  always,  and  now  life  was  thundering  im 
peratively  at  all  her  doors.  Mentally  she  was  in  a  panic 
to  shoot  the  bolts  and  drop  the  bars  into  place,  while 
wanton  instincts  urged  her  to  throw  wide  her  portals  and 
bid  the  deliciously  strange  visitor  to  enter  in. 

Martin  waited  with  satisfaction  for  her  verdict.  He 
had  no  doubt  of  what  it  would  be,  and  he  was  astounded 
when  he  heard  her  say :  — 

"It  is  beautiful." 

"  It  is  beautiful,"  she  repeated,  with  emphasis,  after  a 
pause. 

Of  course  it  was  beautiful;  but  there  was  something 
more  than  mere  beauty  in  it,  something  more  stingingly 
splendid  which  had  made  beauty  its  handmaiden.  He 
sprawled  silently  on  the  ground,  watching  the  grisly  form 
of  a  great  doubt  rising  before  him.  He  had  failed.  He 
was  inarticulate.  He  had  seen  one  of  the  greatest  things 
in  the  world,  and  he  had  not  expressed  it. 

"  What  did  you  think  of  the  —  "  He  hesitated,  abashed 
at  his  first  attempt  to  use  a  strange  word.  "  Of  the  mo 
tif?  "  he  asked. 

"  It  was  confused,"  she  answered.  "  That  is  my  only 
criticism  in  the  large  way.  I  followed  the  story,  but 
there  seemed  so  much  else.  It  is  too  wordy.  You  clog 
the  action  by  introducing  so  much  extraneous  material." 

"  That  was  the  major  motif,"  he  hurriedly  explained, 
"the  big  underrunning  motif,  the  cosmic  and  universal 


128  MARTIN  EDEN 

thing.  I  tried  to  make  it  keep  time  with  the  story  itself, 
which  was  only  superficial  after  all.  I  was  on  the  right 
scent,  but  I  guess  I  did  it  badly.  I  did  not  succeed  in 
suggesting  what  I  was  driving  at.  But  I'll  learn  in 
time." 

She  did  not  follow  him.     She  was  a  bachelor  of  arts, 
but  he  had  gone  beyond  her  limitations.     This  she  did 
/not  comprehend,  attributing  her  incomprehension  to  his 
incoherence. 

"  You  were  too  voluble/'  she  said.  "  But  it  was  beau 
tiful,  in  places." 

He  heard  her  voice  as  from  far  off,  for  he  was  debating 
whether  he  would  read  her  the  "  Sea  Lyrics."  He  lay  in 
dull  despair,  while  she  watched  him  searchingly,  ponder 
ing  again  upon  unsummoned  and  wayward  thoughts  of 
marriage. 

"  You  want  to  be  famous  ?  "  she  asked  abruptly. 

"  Yes,  a  little  bit,"  he  confessed.  "  That  is  part  of  the 
adventure.  It  is  not  the  being  famous,  but  the  process  of 
becoming  so,  that  counts.  And  after  all,  to  be  famous 
would  be,  for  me,  only  a  means  to  something  else.  I 
want  to  be  famous  very  much,  for  that  matter,  and  for 
that  reason." 

"For  your  sake,"  he  wanted  to  add,  and  might  have 
added  had  she  proved  enthusiastic  over  what  he  had  read 
to  her. 

But  she  was  too  busy  in  her  mind,  carving  out  a  career 
for  him  that  would  at  least  be  possible,  to  ask  what  the 
ultimate  something  was  which  he  had  hinted  at.  There 
was  no  career  for  him  in  literature.  Of  that  she  was  con 
vinced.  He  had  proved  it  to-day,  with  his  amateurish 
and  sophomoric  productions.  He  could  talk  well,  but  he 
was  incapable  of  expressing  himself  in  a  literary  way. 
She  compared  Tennyson,  and  Browning,  and  her  favorite 
prose  masters  with  him,  and  to  his  hopeless  discredit.  Yet 
she  did  not  tell  him  her  whole  mind.  Her  strange  inter 
est  in  him  led  her  to  temporize.  His  desire  to  write  was, 
after  all,  a  little  weakness  which  he  would  grow  out  of  in 
time.  Then  he  would  devote  himself  to  the  more  serious 


MARTIN  EDEN  129 

affairs  of  life.  And  he  would  succeed,  too.  She  knew 
that.  He  was  so  strong  that  he  could  not  fail  —  if  only 
he  would  drop  writing. 

"  I  wish  you  would  show  me  all  you  write,  Mr.  Eden," 
she  said. 

He  flushed  with  pleasure.  She  was  interested,  that 
much  was  sure.  And  at  least  she  had  not  given  him  a 
rejection  slip.  She  had  called  certain  portions  of  his 
work  beautiful,  and  that  was  the  first  encouragement  he 
had  ever  received  from  any  one. 

"I  will,"  he  said  passionately.  "And  I  promise  you, 
Miss  Morse,  that  I  will  make  good.  I  have  come  far,  I 
know  that ;  and  I  have  far  to  go,  and  I  will  cover  it  if  I 
have  to  do  it  on  my  hands  and  knees."  He  held  up  a 
bunch  of  manuscript.  " Here  are  the  'Sea  Lyrics.'  When 
you  get  home,  I'll  turn  them  over  to  you  to  read  at  your 
leisure.  And  you  must  be  sure  to  tell  me  just  what  you 
think  of  them.  What  I  need,  you  know,  above  all  things, 
is  criticism.  And  do,  please,  be  frank  with  me." 

"I  will  be  perfectly  frank,"  she  promised,  with  an 
uneasy  conviction  that  she  had  not  been  frank  with  him 
and  with  a  doubt  if  she  could  be  quite  frank  with  him  the 
next  time. 


CHAPTER  XV 

"  THE  first  battle,  fought  and  finished,"  Martin  said  to 
the  looking-glass  ten  days  later.  "But  there  will  be  a 
second  battle,  and  a  third  battle,  and  battles  to  the  end  of 
time,  unless  —  " 

He  had  not  finished  the  sentence,  bat  looked  about  the 
mean  little  room  and  let  his  eyes  dwell  sadly  upon  a  heap 
of  returned  manuscripts,  still  in  their  long  envelopes, 
which  lay  in  a  corner  on  the  floor.  He  had  no  stamps 
with  which  to  continue  them  on  their  travels,  and  for  a 
week  they  had  been  piling  up.  More  of  them  would  come 
in  on  the  morrow,  and  on  the  next  day,  and  the  next, 
till  they  were  all  in.  And  he  would  be  unable  to  start 
them  out  again.  He  was  a  month's  rent  behind  on  the 
type-writer,  which  he  could  not  pay,  having  barely 
enough  for  the  week's  board  which  was  due  and  for  the 
employment  office  fees. 

He  sat  down  and  regarded  the  table  thoughtfully. 
There  were  ink  stains  upon  it,  and  he  suddenly  discorered 
that  he  was  fond  of  it. 

"Dear  old  table,"  he  said,  "I've  spent  some  happy 
hours  with  you,  and  you've  been  a  pretty  good  friend 
when  all  is  said  and  done.  You  never  turned  me  down, 
never  passed  me  out  a  reward-of-unmerit  rejection  slip, 
never  complained  about  working  overtime." 

He  dropped  his  arms  upon  the  table  and  buried  his 
face  in  them.  His  throat  was  aching,  and  he  wanted  to 
cry.  It  reminded  him  of  his  first  fight,  when  he  was  six 
years  old,  when  he  punched  away  with  the  tears  running 
down  his  cheeks  while  the  other  boy,  two  years  his  elder, 
had  beaten  and  pounded  him  into  exhaustion.  He  saw 
the  ring  of  boys,  howling  like  barbarians  as  he  went  down 

130 


MARTIN  EDEN  131 

at  last,  writhing  in  the  throes  of  nausea,  the  blood  stream 
ing  from  his  nose  and  the  tears  from  his  bruised  eyes. 

"  Poor  little  shaver,"  he  murmured.  "  And  you're  just 
as  badly  licked  now.  You're  beaten  to  a  pulp.  You're 
down  and  out." 

But  the  vision  of  that  first  fight  still  lingered  under  his 
eyelids,  and  as  he  watched  he  saw  it  dissolve  and  reshape 
into  the  series  of  fights  which  had  followed.  Six  months 
later  Cheese-Face  (that  was  the  boy)  had  whipped  him 
again.  But  he  had  blacked  Cheese-Face's  eye  that  time. 
That  was  going  some.  He  saw  them  all,  fight  after  fight, 
himself  always  whipped  and  Cheese-Face  exulting  over 
him.  But  he  had  never  run  away.  He  felt  strengthened 
by  the  memory  of  that.  He  had  always  stayed  and  taken 
his  medicine.  Cheese-Face  had  been  a  little  fiend  at  fight 
ing,  and  had  never  once  shown  mercy  to  him.  But  he 
had  stayed!  He  had  stayed  with  it! 

Next,  he  saw  a  narrow  alley,  between  ramshackle  frame 
buildings.  The  end  of  the  alley  was  blocked  by  a  one- 
story  brick  building,  out  of  which  issued  the  rhythmic 
thunder  of  the  presses,  running  off  the  first  edition  of  the 
Enquirer.  He  was  eleven,  and  Cheese-Face  was  thir 
teen,  and  they  both  carried  the  Enquirer.  That  was 
why  they  were  there,  waiting  for  their  papers.  And,  of 
course,  Cheese-Face  had  picked  on  him  again,  and  there 
was  another  fight  that  was  indeterminate,  because  at 
quarter  to  four  the  door  of  the  press-room  was  thrown  open 
and  the  gang  of  boys  crowded  in  to  fold  their  papers. 

"  I'll  lick  you  to-morrow,"  he  heard  Cheese-Face  prom 
ise;  and  he  heard  his  own  voice,  piping  and  trembling 
with  unshed  tears,  agreeing  to  be  there  on  the  morrow. 

And  he  had  come  there  the  next  day,  hurrying  from 
school  to  be  there  first,  and  beating  Cheese-Face  by  two 
minutes.  The  other  boys  said  he  was  all  right,  and  gave 
him  advice,  pointing  out  his  faults  as  a  scrapper  and 
promising  him  victory  if  he  carried  out  their  instructions. 
The  same  boys  gave  Cheese-Face  advice,  too.  How  they 
had  enjoyed  the  fight!  He  paused  in  his  recollections 
long  enough  to  envy  them  the  spectacle  he  and  Cheese- 


132  MARTIN  EDEN 

Face  had  put  up.  Then  the  fight  was  on,  and  it  went  on, 
without  rounds,  for  thirty  minutes,  until  the  press-room 
door  was  opened. 

He  watched  the  youthful  apparition  of  himself,  day 
after  day,  hurrying  from  school  to  the  Enquirer  alley. 
He  could  not  walk  very  fast.  He  was  stiff  and  lame  from 
the  incessant  fighting.  His  forearms  were  black  and 
blue  from  wrist  to  elbow,  what  of  the  countless  blows  he 
had  warded  off,  and  here  and  there  the  tortured  flesh  was 
beginning  to  fester.  His  head  and  arms  and  shoulders 
ached,  the  small  of  his  back  ached,  —  he  ached  all  over, 
and  his  brain  was  heavy  and  dazed.  He  did  not  play  at 
school.  Nor  did  he  study.  Even  to  sit  still  all  day  at 
his  desk,  as  he  did,  was  a  torment.  It  seemed  centuries 
since  he  had  begun  the  round  of  daily  fights,  and  time 
stretched  away  into  a  nightmare  and  infinite  future  of 
daily  fights.  Why  couldn't  Cheese-Face  be  licked?  he 
often  thought;  that  would  put  him,  Martin,  out  of  his 
misery.  It  never  entered  his  head  to  cease  fighting,  to 
allow  Cheese-Face  to  whip  him. 

And  so  he  dragged  himself  to  the  Enquirer  alley, 
sick  in  body  and  soul,  but  learning  the  long  patience,  to 
confront  his  eternal  enemy,  Cheese-Face,  who  was  just  as 
sick  as  he,  and  just  a  bit  willing  to  quit  if  it  were  not 
for  the  gang  of  newsboys  that  looked  on  and  made  pride 
painful  and  necessary.  One  afternoon,  after  twenty  min 
utes  of  desperate  efforts  to  annihilate  each  other  accord 
ing  to  set  rules  that  did  not  permit  kicking,  striking 
below  the  belt,  nor  hitting  when  one  was  down,  Cheese- 
Face,  panting  for  breath  and  reeling,  offered  to  call  it 
quits.  And  Martin,  head  on  arms,  thrilled  at  the  picture 
he  caught  of  himself,  at  that  moment  in  the  afternoon  of 
long  ago,  when  he  reeled  and  panted  and  choked  with  the 
blood  that  ran  into  his  mouth  and  down  his  throat  from 
his  cut  lips;  when  he  tottered  toward  Cheese-Face,  spit 
ting  out  a  mouthful  of  blood  so  that  he  could  speak,  cry 
ing  out  that  he  would  never  quit,  though  Cheese-Face 
could  give  in  if  he  wanted  to.  And  Cheese- Face  did  not 
give  in,  and  the  nprht  went  on. 


MARTIN  EDEN  133 

The  next  day  and  the  next,  days  without  end,  witnessed 
the  afternoon  fight.  When  he  put  up  his  arms,  each  day, 
to  begin,  they  pained  exquisitely,  and  the  first  few  blows, 
struck  and  received,  racked  his  soul;  after  that  things 
grew  numb,  and  he  fought  on  blindly,  seeing  as  in  a 
dream,  dancing  and  wavering,  the  large  features  and  burn 
ing,  animal-like  eyes  of  Cheese-Face.  He  concentrated 
upon  that  face;  all  else  about  him  was  a  whirling  void. 
There  was  nothing  else  in  the  world  but  that  face,  and  he 
would  never  know  rest,  blessed  rest,  until  he  had  beaten 
that  face  into  a  pulp  with  his  bleeding  knuckles,  or  until 
the  bleeding  knuckles  that  somehow  belonged  to  that  face 
had  beaten  him  into  a  pulp.  And  then,  one  way  or  the 
other,  he  would  have  rest.  But  to  quit,  —  for  him,  Martin, 
to  quit,  —  that  was  impossible ! 

Came  the  day  when  he  dragged  himself  into  the 
Enquirer  alley,  and  there  was  no  Cheese-Face.  Nor  did 
Cheese-Face  come.  The  boys  congratulated  him,  and  told 
him  that  he  had  licked  Cheese-Face.  But  Martin  was 
not  satisfied.  He  had  not  licked  Cheese-Face,  nor  had 
Cheese-Face  licked  him.  The  problem  had  not  been 
solved.  It  was  not  until  afterward  that  they  learned 
that  Cheese-Face's  father  had  died  suddenly  that  very 
day. 

Martin  skipped  on  through  the  years  to  the  night  in  the 
nigger  heaven  at  the  Auditorium.  He  was  seventeen  and 
just  back  from  sea.  A  row  started.  Somebody  was 
bullying  somebody,  and  Martin  interfered,  to  be  con 
fronted  by  Cheese-Face's  blazing  eyes. 

"I'll  fix  you  after  cle  show,"  his  ancient  enemy  hissed. 

Martin  nodded.  The  nigger-heaven  bouncer  was  making 
his  way  toward  the  disturbance. 

"  I'll  meet  you  outside,  after  the  last  act,"  Martin  whis 
pered,  the  while  his  face  showed  undivided  interest  in  the 
buck-and-wing  dancing  on  the  stage. 

The  bouncer  glared  and  went  away. 

"  Got  a  gang  ?  "  he  asked  Cheese-Face,  at  the  end  of 
the  act. 

"  Sure." 


134  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  Then  I  got  to  get  one,"  Martin  announced. 

Between  the  acts  he  mustered  his  following  —  three 
fellows  he  knew  from  the  nail  works,  a  railroad  fireman, 
and  half  a  dozen  of  the  Boo  Gang,  along  with  as  many  more 
from  the  dread  Eighteen-and-Market  Gang. 

When  the  theatre  let  out,  the  two  gangs  strung  along 
inconspicuously  on  opposite  sides  of  the  street.  When 
they  came  to  a  quiet  corner,  they  united  and  held  a  council 
of  war. 

"  Eighth  Street  Bridge  is  the  place,"  said  a  red-headed 
fellow  belonging  to  Cheese-Face's  gang.  "  You  kin  fight 
in  the  middle,  under  the  electric  light,  an'  whichever  way 
the  bulls  come  in  we  kin  sneak  the  other  way." 

"  That's  agreeable  to  me,"  Martin  said,  after  consulting 
with  the  leaders  of  his  own  gang. 

The  Eighth  Street  Bridge,  crossing  an  arm  of  San  An 
tonio  Estuary,  was  the  length  of  three  city  blocks.  In  the 
middle  of  the  bridge,  and  at  each  end,  were  electric  lights. 
No  policeman  could  pass  those  end-lights  unseen.  It  was 
the  safe  place  for  the  battle  that  revived  itself  under  Mar 
tin's  eyelids.  He  saw  the  two  gangs,  aggressive  and  sul 
len,  rigidly  keeping  apart  from  each  other  and  backing 
their  respective  champions ;  and  he  saw  himself  and  Cheese- 
Face  stripping.  A  short  distance  away  lookouts  were  set, 
their  task  being  to  watch  the  lighted  ends  of  the  bridge. 
A  member  of  the  Boo  Gang  held  Martin's  coat,  and  shirt, 
and  cap,  ready  to  race  with  them  into  safety  in  case  the 
police  interfered.  Martin  watched  himself  go  into  the 
centre,  facing  Cheese-Face,  and  he  heard  himself  say,  as  he 
held  up  his  hand  warningly  :  — 

M  They  ain't  no  hand-shakin'  in  this.  Understand  ? 
They  ain't  nothin'  but  scrap.  No  thro  win'  up  the  sponge. 
This  is  a  grudge-fight  an'  it's  to  a  finish.  Understand  ? 
Somebody's  goin'  to  get  licked." 

Cheese-Face  wanted  to  demur,  —  Martin  could  see  that, 
—  but  Cheese-Face's  old  perilous  pride  was  touched  before 
the  two  gangs. 

«'  Aw,  come  on,"  he  replied.  "  Wot's  the  good  of  chewin* 
de  rag  about  it?  I'm  wit'  cheh  to  de  finish." 


MARTIN  EDEN  135 

Then  they  fell  upon  each  other,  like  young  bulls,  in  all 
the  glory  of  youth,  with  naked  fists,  with  hatred,  with  de 
sire  to  hurt,  to  maim,  to  destroy.  All  the  painful,  thouv 
sand  years'  gains  of  man  in  his  upward  climb  through 
creation  were  lost.  Only  the  electric  light  remained,  a 
milestone  on  the  path  of  the  great  human  adventure. 
Martin  and  Cheese-Face  were  two  savages,  of  the  stone  age, 
of  the  squatting  place  and  the  tree  refuge.  They  sank 
lower  and  lower  into  th/3  muddy  abyss,  back  into  the  dregs 
of  the  raw  beginnings  of  life,  striving  blindly  and  chemi 
cally,  as  atoms  strive,  as  the  star-dust  of  the  heavens  strives, 
colliding,  recoiling,  and  colliding  again  and  eternally 
again. 

"  God !  We  are  animals  J  Brute-beasts  !  "  Martin 
muttered  aloud,  as  he  watched  the  progress  of  the  fight. 
It  was  to  him,  with  his  splendid  power  of  vision,  like  gazing 
into  a  kinetoscope.  He  was  both  onlooker  and  participant. 
His  long  months  of  culture  and  refinement  shuddered  at  the 
sight ;  then  the  present  was  blotted  out  of  his  conscious 
ness  and  the  ghosts  of  the  past  possessed  him,  and  he  was 
Martin  Eden,  just  returned  from  sea  and  fighting  Cheese- 
Face  on  the  Eighth  Street  Bridge.  He  suffered  and  toiled 
and  sweated  and  bled,  and  exulted  when  his  naked  knuckles 
smashed  home. 

They  were  twin  whirlwinds  of  hatred,  revolving  about 
each  other  monstrously.  The  time  passed,  and  the  two 
hostile  gangs  became  very  quiet.  They  had  never  wit 
nessed  such  intensity  of  ferocity,  and  they  were  awed  by 
it.  The  two  fighters  were  greater  brutes  than  they.  The 
first  splendid  velvet  edge  of  youth  and  condition  wore  off, 
and  they  fought  more  cautiously  and  deliberately.  There 
had  been  no  advantage  gained  either  way.  "  It's  any 
body's  fight,"  Martin  heard  some  one  saying.  Then  he 
followed  up  a  feint,  right  and  left,  was  fiercely  countered, 
and  felt  his  cheek  laid  open  to  the  bone.  No  bare  knuckle 
had  done  that.  He  heard  mutters  of  amazement  at  the 
ghastly  damage  wrought,  and  was  drenched  with  his  own 
blood.  But  he  gave  no  sign.  He  became  immensely  wary, 
for  he  was  wise  with  knowledge  of  the  low  cunning  and 


136  MARTIN  EDEN 

foul  vileness  of  his  kind.  lie  watched  and  waited,  until 
he  feigned  a  wild  rush,  which  he  stopped  midway,  for  he 
had  seen  the  glint  of  metal. 

"  Hold  up  yer  hand  !  "  he  screamed.  "  Them's  brass 
knuckles,  an'  you  hit  me  with  'em  I  " 

Both  gangs  surged  forward,  growling  and  snarling.  In 
a  second  there  would  be  a  free-for-all  fight,  and  he  would 
be  robbed  of  his  vengeance.  He  was  beside  himself. 

"  You  guys  keep  out ! '  he  screamed  hoarsely.  "  Un 
derstand  ?  Say,  d'ye  understand  ?  " 

They  shrank  away  from  him.  They  were  brutes,  but  he 
was  the  arch-brute,  a  thing  of  terror  that  towered  over 
them  and  dominated  them. 

"  This  is  my  scrap,  an'  they  ain't  goin*  to  be  no  buttin' 
in.  Gimme  them  knuckles." 

Cheese-Face,  sobered  and  a  bit  frightened,  surrendered 
the  foul  weapon. 

"  You  passed  'em  to  him,  you  red-head  sneakin*  in  be 
hind  the  push  there,"  Martin  went  on,  as  he  tossed  the 
knuckles  into  the  water.  "  I  seen  you,  an'  I  was  wonderin' 
what  you  was  up  to.  If  you  try  anything  like  that  again, 
I'll  beat  cheh  to  death.  Understand  ?  " 

They  fought  on,  through  exhaustion  and  beyond,  to  ex 
haustion  immeasurable  and  inconceivable,  until  the  crowd 
of  brutes,  its  blood-lust  sated,  terrified  by  what^  it  saw, 
begged  them  impartially  to  cease.  And  Cheese-Face,  ready 
to  drop  and  die,  or  to  stay  on  his  legs  and  die,  a  grisly  mon 
ster  out  of  whose  features  all  likeness  to  Cheese-Face  had 
been  beaten,  wavered  and  hesitated  ;  but  Martin  sprang 
in  and  smashed  him  again  and  again. 

Next,  after  a  seeming  century  or  so,  with  Cheese-Face 
weakening  fast,  in  a  mix-up  of  blows  there  was  a  loud  snap, 
and  Martin's  right  arm  dropped  to  his  side.  It  was  a 
broken  bone.  Everybody  heard  it  and  knew;  and  Cheese- 
Face  knew,  rushing  like  a  tiger  in  the  other's  extremity 
and  raining  blow  on  blow.  Martin's  gang  surged  forward 
to  interfere.  Dazed  by  the  rapid  succession  of  blows, 
Martin  warned  them  back  with  vile  and  earnest  curses 
sobbed  out  and  groaned  in  ultimate  desolation  and  despair. 


MARTIN  EDEN  137 

He  punched  on,  with  his  left  hand  only,  and  as  he 
punched,  doggedly,  only  half -conscious,  as  from  a  remote 
distance  he  heard  murmurs  of  fear  in  the  gangs,  and  one 
who  said  with  shaking  voice  :  "  This  ain't  a  scrap,  fellows. 
It's  murder,  an'  we  ought  to  stop  it." 

But  no  one  stopped  it,  and  he  was  glad,  punching  on 
wearily  and  endlessly  with  his  one  arm,  battering  away  at 
a  bloody  something  before  him  that  was  not  a  face  but  a 
horror,  an  oscillating,  hideous,  gibbering,  nameless  thing 
that  persisted  before  his  wavering  vision  and  would  not 
go  away.  And  he  punched  on  and  on,  slower  and  slower, 
as  the  last  shreds  of  vitality  oozed  from  him,  through  cen 
turies  and  seons  and  enormous  lapses  of  time,  until,  in  a 
dim  way,  he  became  aware  that  the  nameless  thing  was 
sinking,  slowly  sinking  down  to  the  rough  board-planking 
of  the  bridge.  And  the  next  moment  he  was  standing 
over  it,  staggering  and  swaying  on  shaky  legs,  clutching 
at  the  air  for  support,  and  saying  in  a  voice  he  did  not 
recognize :  — 

"  D'ye  want  any  more  ?     Say,  d'ye  want  any  more  ?  " 

He  was  still  saying  it,  over  and  over,  —  demanding,  en 
treating,  threatening,  to  know  if  it  wanted  any  more,  — 
when  he  felt  the  fellows  of  his  gang  laying  hands  on  him, 
patting  him  on  the  back  and  trying  to  put  his  coat  on  him. 
And  then  came  a  sudden  rush  of  blackness  and  oblivion. 

The  tin  alarm-clock  on  the  table  ticked  on,  but  Martin 
Eden,  his  face  buried  on  his  arms,  did  not  hear  it.  He 
heard  nothing.  He  did  not  think.  So  absolutely  had  he 
relived  life  that  he  had  fainted  just  as  he  fainted  years  be 
fore  on  the  Eighth  Street  Bridge.  For  a  full  minute  the 
blackness  and  the  blankness  endured.  Then,  like  one  from 
the  dead,  he  sprang  upright,  eyes  flaming,  sweat  pouring 
down  his  face,  shouting  :  — 

"  I  licked  you,  Cheese-Face  I  It  took  me  eleven  years, 
but  I  licked  you  !  " 

His  knees  were  trembling  under  him,  he  felt  faint,  and 
he  staggered  back  to  the  bed,  sinking  down  and  sitting  on 
the  edge  of  it.  He  was  still  in  the  clutch  of  the  past.  He 
looked  about  the  room,  perplexed,  alarmed,  wondering 


138  MARTIN  EDEN 

where  he  was,  until  he  caught  sight  of  the  pile  of  manu 
scripts  in  the  corner.  Then  the  wheels  of  memory  slipped 
ahead  through  four  years  of  time,  and  he  was  aware  of  the 
present,  of  the  books  he  had  opened  and  the  universe  he 
had  won  from  their  pages,  of  his  dreams  and  ambitions, 
and  of  his  love  for  a  pale  wraith  of  a  girl,  sensitive  and 
sheltered  and  ethereal,  who  would  die  of  horror  did  she 
witness  but  one  moment  of  what  he  had  just  lived  through 
—  one  moment  of  all  the  muck  of  life  through  which  he 
had  waded. 

He  arose  to  his  feet  and  confronted  himself  in  the  look 
ing-glass. 

"  And  so  you  arise  from  the  mud,  Martin  Eden,"  he  said 
Solemnly.  "  And  you  cleanse  your  eyes  in  a  great  bright- 
pess,  and  thrust  your  shoulders  among  the  stars,  doing 
what  all  life  has  done,  letting  the  '  ape  and  tiger  die  *  and 
wresting  highest  heritage  from  all  powers  that  be." 

He  looked  more  closely  at  himself  and  laughed. 

"  A  bit  of  hysteria  and  melodrama,  eh  ?  "  he  queried. 
"  Well,  never  mind.  You  licked  Cheese-Face,  and  you'll 
lick  the  editors  if  it  takes  twice  eleven  years  to  do  it  in. 
You  can't  stop  here.  You've  got  to  go  on.  It's  to  a 
finish,  you  know." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  alarm-clock  went  off,  jerking  Martin  out  of  sleep 
with  a  suddenness  that  would  have  given  headache  to  one 
with  less  splendid  constitution.  Though  he  slept  soundly, 
he  awoke  instantly,  like  a  cat,  and  he  awoke  eagerly,  glad 
that  the  five  hours  of  unconsciousness  were  gone.  He 
hated  the  oblivion  of  sleep.  There  was  too  much  to  do, 
too  much  of  life  to  live.  He  grudged  every  moment  of 
life  sleep  robbed  him  of,  and  before  the  clock  had  ceased 
its  clattering  he  was  head  and  ears  in  the  wash-basin  and 
thrilling  to  the  cold  bite  of  the  water. 

But  he  did  not  follow  his  regular  programme.  There  was 
no  unfinished  story  waiting  his  hand,  no  new  story  demand 
ing  articulation.  He  had  studied  late,  and  it  was  nearly  time 
for  breakfast.  He  tried  to  read  a  chapter  in  Fiske,  but 
his  brain  was  restless  and  he  closed  the  book.  To-day 
witnessed  the  beginning  of  the  new  battle,  wherein  for 
some  time  there  would  be  no  writing.  He  was  aware  of  a 
sadness  akin  to  that  with  which  one  leaves  home  and 
family.  He  looked  at  the  manuscripts  in  the  corner. 
That  was  it.  He  was  going  away  from  them,  his  pitiful, 
dishonored  children  that  were  welcome  nowhere.  He 
went  over  and  began  to  rummage  among  them,  reading 
snatches  here  and  there,  his  favorite  portions.  "  The  Pot" 
he  honored  with  reading  aloud,  as  he  did  "Adventure." 
"  Joy,"  his  latest-born,  completed  the  day  before  and  tossed 
into  the  corner  for  lack  of  stamps,  won  his  keenest  appro 
bation. 

"  I  can't  understand,"  he  murmured.  "  Or  maybe  it's  the 
editors  who  can't  understand.  There's  nothing  wrong 
with  that.  They  publish  worse  every  month.  Every 
thing  they  publish  is  worse  —  nearly  everything,  any 
way." 

139 


140  MARTIN  EDEN 

After  breakfast  he  put  the  type-writer  in  its  case  and 
carried  it  down  into  Oakland. 

"I  owe  a  month  on  it,"  he  told  the  clerk  in  the  store. 
"  But  you  tell  the  manager  I'm  going  to  work  and  that  I'll 
be  in  in  a  month  or  so  and  straighten  up." 

He  crossed  on  the  ferry  to  San  Francisco  and  made  his 
way  to  an  employment  office.  "  Any  kind  of  work,  no 
trade,"  he  told  the  agent ;  and  was  interrupted  by  a  new 
comer,  dressed  rather  foppishly,  as  some  workingmen  dress 
who  have  instincts  for  finer  things.  The  agent  shook  his 
head  despondently. 

"  Nothin'  doin',  eh  ?  "  said  the  other.  "  Well,  I  got  to 
get  somebody  to-day." 

He  turned  and  stared  at  Martin,  and  Martin,  staring 
back,  noted  the  puffed  and  discolored  face,  handsome  and 
weak,  and  knew  that  he  had  been  making  a  night  of  it. 

"  Lookin'  for  a  job  ?  "  the  other  queried.  "  What  can 
you  do  ?  " 

"Hard  labor,  sailorizing,  run  a  type-writer,  no  short 
hand,  can  sit  on  a  horse,  willing  to  do  anything  and  tackle 
anything,"  was  the  answer. 

The  other  nodded. 

"Sounds  good  to  me.  My  name's  Dawson,  Joe  Dawson, 
an'  I'm  tryin'  to  scare  up  a  laundryman." 

"  Too  much  for  me."  Martin  caught  an  amusing  glimpse 
of  himself  ironing  fluffy  white  things  that  women  wear. 
But  he  had  taken  a  liking  to  the  other,  and  he  added :  "  I 
might  do  the  plain  washing.  I  learned  that  much  at  sea." 

Joe  Dawson  thought  visibly  for  a  moment. 

"  Look  here,  let's  get  together  an'  frame  it  up.  Willin' 
to  listen  ?  " 

Martin  nodded. 

"  This  is  a  small  laundry,  up  country,  belongs  to  Shelly 
Hot  Springs,  —  hotel,  you  know.  Two  men  do  the  work, 
boss  and  assistant.  I'm  the  boss.  You  don't  work  for  me. 
but  j^ou  work  under  me.  Think  you'd  be  willin'  to  learn  ?  " 

Martin  paused  to  think.  The  prospect  was  alluring.  A 
few  months  of  it,  and  he  would  have  time  to  himself  for 
study.  He  could  work  hard  and  study  hard. 


MARTIN  EDEN  141 

"  Good  grub  an'  a  room  to  yourself,"  Joe  said. 

That  settled  it.  A  room  to  himself  where  he  could  burn 
the  midnight  oil  unmolested. 

"  But  work  like  hell,"  the  other  added. 

Martin  caressed  his  swelling  shoulder-muscles  signifi 
cantly.  "  That  came  from  hard  work." 

"Then  let's  get  to  it."  Joe  held  his  hand  to  his  head 
for  a  moment.  "  Gee,  but  it's  a  stem-winder.  Can  hardly 
see.  I  went  down  the  line  last  night  —  everything  — 
everything.  Here's  the  frame-up.  The  wages  for  two  is 
a  hundred  and  board.  I've  ben  drawin'  down  sixty,  the 
second  man  forty.  But  he  knew  the  biz.  You're  green. 
If  I  break  you  in,  I'll  be  doing  plenty  of  your  work  at 
first.  Suppose  you  begin  at  thirty,  an'  work  up  to  the 
forty.  I'll  play  fair.  Just  as  soon  as  you  can  do  your 
share  you  get  the  forty." 

"  I'll  go  you,"  Martin  announced,  stretching  out  his 
hand,  which  the  other  shook.  "Any  advance?  —  for  rail 
road  ticket  and  extras  ?  " 

"  I  blew  it  in,"  was  Joe's  sad  answer,  with  another  reach 
at  his  aching  head.  "  All  I  got  is  a  return  ticket." 

"  And  I'm  broke  —  when  I  pay  my  board." 

"Jump  it,"  Joe  advised. 

"  Can't.     Owe  it  to  my  sister." 

Joe  whistled  a  long,  perplexed  whistle,  and  racked  his 
brains  to  little  purpose. 

"  I've  got  the  price  of  the  drinks,"  he  said  desperately. 
"  Come  on,  an'  mebbe  we'll  cook  up  something." 

Martin  declined. 

"  Water-wagon  ?  " 

This  time  Martin  nodded,  and  Joe  lamented,  "  Wish  I  was. 

"  But  I  somehow  just  can't,"  he  said  in  extenuation. 
*'  After  I've  ben  workin'  like  hell  all  week  I  just  got  to 
booze  up.  If  I  didn't,  I'd  cut  my  throat  or  burn  up  the 
premises.  But  I'm  glad  you're  on  the  wagon.  Stay  with 
it." 

Martin  knew  of  the  enormous  gulf  between  him  and 
this  man  —  the  gulf  the  books  had  made  ;  but  he  found 
no  difficulty  in  crossing  back  over  that  gulf.  He  had 


142  MARTIN  EDEN 

lived  all  his  life  in  the  working-class  world,  and  the  cama 
raderie  of  labor  was  second  nature  with  him.  He  solved 
the  difficulty  of  transportation  that  was  too  much  for  the 
other's  aching  head.  He  would  send  his  trunk  up  to 
Shelly  Hot  Springs  on  Joe's  ticket.  As  for  himself,  there 
was  his  wheel.  It  was  seventy  miles,  and  he  could  ride 
it  on  Sunday  and  be  ready  for  work  Monday  morning. 
In  the  meantime  he  would  go  home  and  pack  up.  There 
was  no  one  to  say  good-by  to.  Ruth  and  her  whole 
family  were  spending  the  long  summer  in  the  Sierras,  at 
Lake  Tahoe. 

He  arrived  at  Shelly  Hot  Springs,  tired  and  dusty,  on 
Sunday  night.  Joe  greeted  him  exuberantly.  With  a 
wet  towel  bound  about  his  aching  brow,  he  had  been  at 
work  all  day. 

"  Part  of  last  week's  washin'  mounted  up,  me  bein'  away 
to  get  you,"  he  explained.  "  Your  box  arrived  all  right. 
It's  in  your  room.  But  it's  a  hell  of  a  thing  to  call  a 
trunk.  An'  what's  in  it  ?  Gold  bricks?" 

Joe  sat  on  the  bed  while  Martin  unpacked.  The  box 
was  a  packing-case  for  breakfast  food,  and  Mr.  Higgin- 
botham  had  charged  him  half  a  dollar  for  it.  Two  rope 
handles,  nailed  on  by  Martin,  had  technically  transformed 
it  into  a  trunk  eligible  for  the  baggage-car.  Joe  watched, 
with  bulging  eyes,  a  few  shirts  and  several  changes  of 
underclothes  come  out  of  the  box,  followed  by  books,  and 
more  books. 

"  Books  clean  to  the  bottom  ?  "  he  asked. 

Martin  nodded,  and  went  on  arranging  the  books  on  a 
kitchen  table  which  served  in  the  room  in  place  of  a  wash- 
stand. 

"  Gee !  "  Joe  exploded,  then  waited  in  silence  for  the 
deduction  to  arise  in  his  brain.  At  last  it  came. 

"  Say,  you  don't  care  for  the  girls  —  much  ?  "  he  queried. 

"  No,"  was  the  answer.  "  I  used  to  chase  a  lot  before 
I  tackled  the  books.  But  since  then  there's  no  time." 

"And  there  won't  be  any  time  here.  All  you  can  do 
is  work  an'  sleep." 

Martin  thought  of  his  five  hours'  sleep  a  night,  and 
smiled.  The  room  was  situated  over  the  laundry  and  was 


MARTIN  EDEN  143 

in  the  same  building  with  the  engine  that  pumped  water, 
made  electricity,  and  ran  the  laundry  machinery.  The 
engineer,  who  occupied  the  adjoining  room,  dropped  in  to 
meet  the  new  hand  and  helped  Martin  rig  up  an  electric 
bulb,  on  an  extension  wire,  so  that  it  travelled  along  a 
stretched  cord  from  over  the  table  to  the  bed. 

The  next  morning,  at  quarter-past  six,  Martin  was 
routed  out  for  a  quarter-to-seven  breakfast.  There 
happened  to  be  a  bath-tub  for  the  servants  in  the  laundry 
building,  and  he  electrified  Joe  by  taking  a  cold  bath. 

"Gee,  but  you're  a  hummer!"  Joe  announced,  as  they 
sat  down  to  breakfast  in  a  corner  of  the  hotel  kitchen. 

With  them  was  the  engineer,  the  gardener,  and  the 
assistant  gardener,  and  two  or  three  men  from  the  stable. 
They  ate  hurriedly  and  gloomily,  with  but  little  conversa 
tion,  and  as  Martin  ate  and  listened  he  realized  how  far 
he  had  travelled  from  their  status.  Their  small  mental 
caliber  was  depressing  to  him,  and  he  was  anxious  to  get 
away  from  them.  So  he  bolted  his  breakfast,  a  sickly, 
sloppy  affair,  as  rapidly  as  they,  and  heaved  a  sigh  of 
relief  when  he  passed  out  through  the  kitchen  door. 

It  was  a  perfectly  appointed,  small  steam  laundry, 
wherein  the  most  modern  machinery  did  everything  that 
was  possible  for  machinery  to  do.  Martin,  after  a  few 
instructions,  sorted  the  great  heaps  of  soiled  clothes,  while 
Joe  started  the  masher  and  made  up  fresh  supplies  of  soft- 
soap,  compounded  of  biting  chemicals  that  compelled  him 
to  swathe  his  mouth  and  nostrils  and  eyes  in  bath-towels 
till  he  resembled  a  mummy.  Finished  the  sorting,  Martin 
lent  a  hand  in  wringing  the  clothes.  This  was  done  by 
dumping  them  into  a  spinning  receptacle  that  went  at  a 
rate  of  a  few  thousand  revolutions  a  minute,  tearing  the 
water  from  the  clothes  by  centrifugal  force.  Then 
Martin  began  to  alternate  between  the  dryer  and  the 
wringer,  between  times  "  shaking  out  "  socks  and  stock 
ings.  By  the  afternoon,  one  feeding  and  one  stacking  up, 
they  were  running  socks  and  stockings  through  the  mangle 
while  the  irons  were  heating.  Then  it  was  hot  irons  and 
underclothes  till  six  o'clock,  at  which  time  Joe  shook  his 
head  dubiously. 


144  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  Way  behind,"  he  said.     "  Got  to  work  after  supper." 

And  after  supper  they  worked  until  ten  o'clock,  under 
the  blazing  electric  lights,  until  the  last  piece  of  under 
clothing  was  ironed  and  folded  away  in  the  distributing 
room.  It  was  a  hot  California  night,  and  though  the 
windows  were  thrown  wide,  the  room,  with  its  red-hot 
ironing-stove,  was  a  furnace.  Martin  and  Joe,  down  to 
undershirts,  bare  armed,  sweated  and  panted  for  air. 

"Like  trimming  cargo  in  the  tropics,"  Martin  said, 
when  they  went  upstairs. 

"You'll  do,"  Joe  answered.  "You  take  hold  like  a 
good  fellow.  If  you  keep  up  the  pace,  you'll  be  on  thirty 
dollars  only  one  month.  The  second  month  you'll  be 
gettin'  your  forty.  But  don't  tell  me  you  never  ironed 
before.  I  know  better." 

"  Never  ironed  a  rag  in  my  life,  honestly,  until  to-day," 
Martin  protested. 

He  was  surprised  at  his  weariness  when  he  got  into  his 
room,  forgetful  of  the  fact  that  he  had  been  on  his  feet 
and  working  without  let  up  for  fourteen  hours.  He  set 
the  alarm  at  six,  and  measured  back  five  hours  to  one 
o'clock.  He  could  read  until  then.  Slipping  off  his 
shoes,  to  ease  his  swollen  feet,  he  sat  down  at  the  table 
with  his  books.  He  opened  Fiske,  where  he  had  left  off 
two  days  before,  and  began  to  read.  But  he  found  trouble 
with  the  first  paragraph  and  began  to  read  it  through  a 
second  time.  Then  he  awoke,  in  pain  from  his  stiffened 
muscles  and  chilled  by  the  mountain  wind  that  had  begun 
to  blow  in  through  the  window.  He  looked  at  the  clock. 
It  marked  two.  He  had  been  asleep  four  hours.  He 
pulled  off  his  clothes  and  crawled  into  bed,  where  he  was 
asleep  the  moment  after  his  head  touched  the  pillow. 

Tuesday  was  a  day  of  similar  unremitting  toil.  The 
speed  with  which  Joe  worked  won  Martin's  admiration. 
Joe  was  a  dozen  of  demons  for  work.  He  was  keyed  up 
to  concert  pitch,  and  there  was  never  a  moment  in  the 
long  day  when  he  was  not  fighting  for  moments.  He 
concentrated  himself  upon  his  work  and  upon  how  to 
save  time,  pointing  out  to  Martin  where  he  did  in  five 


MARTIN  EDEN  145 

motions  what  could  be  done  in  three,  or  in  three  motions 
what  could  be  done  in  two.  "Elimination  of  waste 
motion,"  Martin  phrased  it  as  he  watched  and  patterned 
after.  He  was  a  good  workman  himself,  quick  and  deft, 
and  it  had  always  been  a  point  of  pride  with  him  that  no 
man  should  do  any  of  his  work  for  him  or  outwork  him. 
As  a  result,  he  concentrated  with  a  similar  singleness  of 
purpose,  greedily  snapping  up  the  hints  and  suggestions 
thrown  out  by  his  working  mate.  He  "  rubbed  out '' 
collars  and  cuffs,  rubbing  the  starch  out  from  between  the 
double  thicknesses  of  linen  so  that  thore  would  be  no 
blisters  when  it  came  to  the  ironing,  ard  doing  it  at  a 
pace  that  elicited  Joe's  praise. 

There  war  never  an  interval  when  something  was  not 
at  hand  to  be  done.  Joe  waited  for  nothing,  waited  on 
nothing,  and  went  on  the  jump  from  task  to  task.  They 
starched  two  hundred  white  shirts,  with  a  single  gather 
ing  movement  seizing  a  shirt  so  that  the  wristbands, 
neckband,  yoke,  and  bosom  protruded  beyond  the  cir 
cling  right  hand.  At  the  same  moment  the  left  hand 
held  up  the  body  of  the  shirt  so  that  it  would  not  enter 
the  starch,  and  at  the  same  moment  the  right  hand  dipped 
into  the  starch  —  starch  so  he  t  that,  in  order  to  wring  it 
out,  their  hands  had  to  be  thrust,  and  thrust  continu 
ally,  into  a  bucket  of  cold  water.  And  that  night  they 
worked  till  half -past  ten,  dipping  "fancy  starch"  —  all 
the  fri  led  and  airy,  delicate  wear  of  ladies. 

"  Me  for  the  tropics  and  no  clothes,"  Ma_tin  laughed. 

"And  me  out  of  a  job,"  Joe  answered  seriously.  "I 
doj  t  know  nothin'  but  laundrying." 

"  And  you  know  it  well.'' 

"  I  ought  to.  Began  in  the  Contra  Costa  in  Oakland 
when  I  was  eleven,  shakin'  out  for  the  mangle.  That  was 
eighteen  years  ago,  an'  I've  never  done  a  tap  of  anything 
else.  But  this  job  is  the  fiercest  I  ever  had.  Ought  to 
be  one  more  man  on  it  at  least.  We  work  to-morrow 
night.  Always  run  the  mangle  Wednesday  nights  — 
collars  an'  cuffs." 

Martin  set  his  alarm,  drew  up  to  the  table,  and  opened 


146  MARTIN  EDEN 

Fiske.  He  did  not  finish  the  first  paragraph.  The  lines 
blurred  and  ran  together  and  his  head  nodded.  He 
walked  up  and  down,  batting  his  head  savagely  with  his 
fists,  but  he  could  not  conquer  the  numbness  of  sleep. 
He  propped  the  book  before  him,  and  propped  his  eyelids 
with  his  fingers,  and  fell  asleep  with  his  eyes  wide  open. 
Then  he  surrendered,  and,  scarcely  conscious  of  what  he 
did,  got  off  his  clothes  and  into  bed.  He  slept  seven 
hours  of  heavy,  animal-like  sleep,  and  awoke  by  the 
alarm,  feeling  that  he  had  not  had  enough. 

"  Doin'  much  readin'  ?  "  Joe  asked. 

Martin  shook  his  head. 

"Never  mind.  We  got  to  run  the  mangle  to-night, 
but  Thursday  we'll  knock  off  at  six.  That'll  give  you  a 
chance." 

Martin  washed  woollens  that  day,  by  hand,  in  a  large 
barrel,  with  strong  soft-soap,  by  means  cf  a  hub  from 
a  wagon  wheel,  mounted  on  a  plunger-pole  that  was 
attached  to  a  spring-pola  overhead. 

"My  invention,1'  Joe  said  proudly.  "Beats  a  wash 
board  an'  your  knuckles,  and,  besides,  it  saves  at  least 
fifteen  minutes  in  the  week,  an'  fifteen  minutes  ain't  to 
be  sneezed  at  in  this  shebang." 

Running  the  collars  and  cuffs  through  the  mangle  was 
also  Joe's  idea.  That  night,  while  they  toiled  on  under 
the  electric  lights,  he  explained  it. 

"Something  no  laundry  ever  does,  except  th's  one. 
An'  I  got  to  do  it  if  I'm  goin'  to  get  done  Saturday  after 
noon  at  three  o'clock.  But  I  know  how,  an'  that's  the 
difference.  Got  to  have  right  heat,  right  pressure,  md 
run  'em  through  three  times.  Look  at  that!  "  He  held 
a  cuff  aloft.  "Couldn't  do  it  better  by  har.d  x  on  a 
tiler." 

Thursday,  Joe  was  in  a  rage.  A  bundle  of  extra  "  fancy 
starch  "  had  come  in. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  quit,"  he  announced.  "  I  won't  stand  for 
it.  I'm  goin'  to  quit  it  cold.  What's  the  good  of  me 
workin'  like  a  slave  all  week,  a-savin'  minutes,  an'  them 
a-comin'  an'  ringin'  in  fancy-starch  extras  on  me  ?  This 


MARTIN  EDEN  147 

is  a  free  country,  an'  I'm  goitT1  to  tell  that  fat  Dutchman 
what  I  think  of  him.  Ans  I  woa't  tell  'm  in  French. 
Plain  United  States  is  good  enough  for  me.  Him 
a-ringin'  in  fancy  starch  extras  ! 

"  We  got  to  work  to-night,"  he  said  the  next  moment, 
reversing  his  judgment  and  surrendering  to  fate. 

And  Martin  did  no  reading  that  night.  He  had  seen 
no  daily  paper  all  week,  and,  strangely  to  him,  felt  no 
desire  to  see  one.  He  was  not  interested  in  the  news. 
He  was  too  tired  and  jaded  to  be  interested  in  anything, 
though  he  planned  to  leave  Saturday  afternoon,  if  they 
finished  at  three,  and  ride  on  his  wheel  to  Oakland.  It 
was  seventy  miles,  and  the  same  distance  back  on  Sunday 
afternoon  would  leave  him  anything  but  rested  for  the 
second  week's  work.  It  would  have  been  easier  to  go  on 
the  train,  but  the  round  trip  was  two  dollars  and  a  half, 
and  he  was  intent  on  saving  money. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

MARTIN  learned  to  do  many  things.  In  the  course  of 
the  first  week,  in  one  afternoon,  he  and  Joe  accounted  for 
the  two  hundred  white  shirts.  Joe  ran  the  tiler,  a  machine 
wherein  a  hot  iron  was  hooked  on  a  steel  string  which  fur 
nished  the  pressure.  By  this  means  he  ironed  the  yoke, 
wristbands,  and  neckband,  setting  the  latter  at  right  angles 
to  the  shirt,  and  put  the  glossy  finish  on  the  bosom.  As 
fast  as  he  finished  them,  he  flung  the  shirts  on  a  rack  be 
tween  him  and  Martin,  who  caught  them  up  and  "  backed" 
them.  This  task  consisted  of  ironing  all  the  unstarched 
portions  of  the  shirts. 

It  was  exhausting  work,  carried  on,  hour  after  hour,  at 
top  speed.  Out  on  the  broad  verandas  of  the  hotel,  men 
and  women,  in  cool  white,  sipped  iced  drinks  and  kept  their 
circulation  down.  But  in  the  laundry  the  air  was  sizzling. 
The  huge  stove  roared  red  hot  and  white  hot,  while  the 
irons,  moving  over  the  damp  cloth,  sent  up  clouds  of  steam. 
The  heat  of  these  irons  was  different  from  that  used  by 
housewives.  An  iron  that  stood  the  ordinary  test  of  a 
wet  finger  was  too  cold  for  Joe  and  Martin,  and  such  test 
was  useless.  They  went  wholly  by  holding  the  irons  close 
to  their  cheeks,  gauging  the  heat  by  some  secret  mental 
process  that  Martin  admired  but  could  not  understand. 
When  the  fresh  irons  proved  too  hot,  they  hooked  them  on 
iron  rods  and  dipped  them  into  cold  water.  This  again 
required  a  precise  and  subtle  judgment.  A  fraction  of  a 
second  too  long  in  the  water  and  the  fine  and  silken  edge 
of  the  proper  heat  was  lost,  and  Martin  found  time  to 
marvel  at  the  accuracy  he  developed  —  an  automatic  accu 
racy,  founded  upon  criteria  that  were  machine-like  and 
unerring. 

But  there  was  little  time  in  which  to  marvel.      All 

148 


MARTIN  EDEN  149 

Martin's  consciousness  was  concentrated  in  the  work. 
Ceaselessly  active,  head  and  hand,  an  intelligent  machine, 
all  that  constituted  him  a  man  was  devoted  to  furnishing 
that  intelligence.  There  was  no  room  in  his  brain  for 
the  universe  and  its  mighty  problems.  All  the  broad  and 
spacious  corridors  of  his  mind  were  closed  and  hermetically 
sealed.  The  echoing  chamber  of  his  soul  was  a  narrow 
room,  a  conning  tower,  whence  were  directed  his  arm  and 
shoulder  muscles,  his  ten  nimble  fingers,  and  the  swift- 
moving  iron  along  its  steaming  path  in  broad,  sweeping 
strokes,  just  so  many  strokes  and  no  more,  just  so  far  with 
each  stroke  and  not  a  fraction  of  an  inch  farther,  rushing 
along  interminable  sleeves,  sides,  backs,  and  tails,  and 
tossing  the  finished  shirts,  without  rumpling,  upon  the 
receiving  frame.  And  even  as  his  hurrying  soul  tossed, 
it  was  reaching  for  another  shirt.  This  went  on,  hour 
after  hour,  while  outside  all  the  world  swooned  under  the 
overhead  California  sun.  But  there  was  no  swooning  in 
that  superheated  room.  The  cool  guests  on  the  verandas 
needed  clean  linen. 

The  sweat  poured  from  Martin.  He  drank  enormous 
quantities  of  water,  but  so  great  was  the  heat  of  the  day 
and  of  his  exertions,  that  the  water  sluiced  through  the 
interstices  of  his  flesh  and  out  at  all  his  pores.  Always, 
at  sea,  except  at  rare  intervals,  the  work  he  performed 
had  given  him  ample  opportunity  to  commune  with  him 
self.  The  master  of  the  ship  had  been  lord  of  Martin's 
time ;  but  here  the  manager  of  the  hotel  was  lord  of 
Martin's  thoughts  as  well.  He  had  no  thoughts  save  for 
the  nerve-racking,  body-destroying  toil.  Outside  of  that 
it  was  impossible  to  think.  He  did  not  know  that  he 
loved  Ruth.  She  did  not  even  exist,  for  his  driven  soul 
had  no  time  to  remember  her.  It  was  only  when  he 
crawled  to  bed  at  night,  or  to  breakfast  in  the  morning, 
that  she  asserted  herself  to  him  in  fleeting  memories. 

"This  is  hell,  ain't  it?"  Joe  remarked  once. 

Martin  nodded,  but  felt  a  rasp  of  irritation.  The  state* 
ment  had  been  obvious  and  unnecessary.  They  did  not 
talk  while  they  worked.  Conversation  threw  them  out 


150  MARTIN  EDEN 

of  their  stride,  as  it  did  this  time,  compelling  Martin  to 
miss  a  stroke  of  his  iron  and  to  make  two  extra  motions 
before  he  caught  his  stride  again. 

On  Friday  morning  the  washer  ran.  Twice  a  week  they 
had  to  put  through  hotel  linen,  —  the  sheets,  pillow-slips, 
spreads,  table-cloths,  and  napkins.  This  finished,  they 
buckled  down  to  "fancy  starch."  It  was  slow  work, 
fastidious  and  delicate,  and  Martin  did  not  learn  it  so 
readily.  Besides,  he  could  not  take  chances.  Mistakes 
were  disastrous. 

"See  that,"  Joe  said,  holding  up  a  filmy  corset-cover 
that  he  could  have  crumpled  from  view  in  one  hand. 
"Scorch  that  an'  it's  twenty  dollars  out  of  your  wages." 

So  Martin  did  not  scorch  that,  and  eased  down  on  his 
muscular  tension,  though  nervous  tension  rose  higher  than 
ever,  and  he  listened  sympathetically  to  the  other's 
blasphemies  as  he  toiled  and  suffered  over  the  beautiful 
things  that  women  wear  when  they  do  not  have  to  do  their 
own  laundry  ing.  "  Fancy  starch"  was  Martin's  night 
mare,  and  it  was  Joe's,  too.  It  was  "  fancy  starch  "  that 
robbed  them  of  their  hard-won  minutes.  They  toiled  at 
it  all  day.  At  seven  in  the  evening  they  broke  off  to  run 
the  hotel  linen  through  the  mangle.  At  ten  o'clock,  while 
the  hotel  guests  slept,  the  two  laundrymen  sweated  on  at 
"  fancy  starch  "  till  midnight,  till  one,  till  two.  At  half- 
past  two  they  knocked  off. 

Saturday  morning  it  was  "  fancy  starch,"  and  odds  and 
ends,  and  at  three  in  the  afternoon  the  week's  work  was 
done. 

"  You  ain't  a-goin'  to  ride  them  seventy  miles  into  Oak 
land  on  top  of  this  ? "  Joe  demanded,  as  they  sat  on  the 
stairs  and  took  a  triumphant  smoke. 

"  Got  to,"  was  the  answer. 

"  What  are  you  goin'  for?  —  a  girl?  " 

"No;  to  save  two  and  a  half  on  the  railroad  ticket.  I 
want  to  renew  some  books  at  the  library." 

"  Why  don't  you  send  'em  down  an'  up  by  express  ? 
That'll  cost  only  a  quarter  each  way." 

Martin  considered  it. 


MARTIN  EDEN  151 

"  An'  take  a  rest  to-morrow,"  the  other  urged.  "  You 
need  it.  I  know  I  do.  I'm  plumb  tuckered  out." 

He  looked  it.  Indomitable,  never  resting,  fighting  for 
seconds  and  minutes  all  week,  circumventing  delays  and 
crushing  down  obstacles,  a  fount  of  resistless  energy,  a 
high-driven  human  motor,  a  demon  for  work,  now  that  he 
had  accomplished  the  week's  task  he  was  in  a  state  of 
collapse.  He  was  worn  and  haggard,  and  his  handsome 
face  drooped  in  lean  exhaustion.  He  puffed  his  cigarette 
spiritlessly,  and  his  voice  was  peculiarly  dead  and  monoto 
nous.  All  the  snap  and  fire  had  gone  out  of  him.  His 
triumph  seemed  a  sorry  one. 

"  An'  next  week  we  got  to  do  it  all  over  again,"  he  said 
sadly...  "  An'  what's  the  good  of  it  all,  hey?  Sometimes 
I  wish  I  was  a  hobo.  They  don't  work,  an'  they  get  their 
livin'.  Gee !  I  wish  I  had  a  glass  of  beer ;  but  I  can't 
get  up  the  gumption  to  go  down  to  the  village  an'  get 
it.  You'll  stay  over,  an'  send  your  books  down  by  ex 
press,  or  else  you're  a  damn  fool." 

"  But  what  can  I  do  here  all  day  Sunday?  "  Martin  asked. 

"  Rest.  You  don't  know  how  tired  you  are.  Why,  I'm 
that  tired  Sunday  I  can't  even  read  the  papers.  I  was 
sick  once — typhoid.  In  the  hospital  two  months  an'  a 
half.  Didn  t  do  a  tap  of  work  all  that  time.  It  was 
beautiful. 

"  It  was  beautiful,"  he  repeated  dreamily,  a  minute 
later. 

Martin  took  a  bath,  after  which  he  found  that  the  head 
laundryman  had  disappeared.  Most  likely  he  had  gone 
for  the  glass  of  beer,  Martin  decided,  but  the  half-mile 
walk  down  to  the  village  to  find  out  seemed  a  long  jour 
ney  to  him.  He  lay  on  his  bed  with  his  shoes  off,  trying 
to  make  up  his  mind.  He  did  not  reach  out  for  a  book. 
He  was  too  tired  to  feel  sleepy,  and  he  lay,  scarcely  think 
ing,  in  a  semi-stupor  of  weariness,  until  it  was  time  for 
supper.  Joe  did  not  appear  for  that  function,  and  when 
Martin  heard  the  gardener  remark  that  most  likely  he 
was  ripping  the  slats  off  the  bar,  Martin  understood.  He 
went  to  bed  immediately  afterward,  and  in  the  morning 


152  MARTIN  EDEN 

decided  that  he  was  greatly  rested.  Joe  being  still  absent, 
Martin  procured  a  Sunday  paper  and  lay  down  in  a  shady 
nook  under  the  trees.  The  morning  passed,  he  knew 
not  how.  He  did  not  sleep,  nobody  disturbed  him,  and 
he  did  not  finish  the  paper.  He  came  back  to  it  in  the 
afternoon,  after  dinner,  and  fell  asleep  over  it. 

So  passed  Sunday,  and  Monday  morning  he  was  hard 
at  work,  sorting  clothes,  while  Joe,  a  towel  bound  tightly 
around  his  head,  with  groans  and  blasphemies,  was  run 
ning  the  washer  and  mixing  soft-soap. 

"  I  simply  can't  help  it,"  he  explained.  "  I  got  to  drink 
when  Saturday  night  comes  around." 

Another  week  passed,  a  great  battle  that  continued 
under  the  electric  lights  each  night  and  that  culminated 
on  Saturday  afternoon  at  three  o'clock,  whe  Joe  tasted 
his  moment  of  wilted  triumph  and  then  drilled  down  to 
the  village  to  forget.  Martin's  Sunday  was  the  same  as 
before.  He  slept  in  the  shade  of  the  trees,  toiled  aimlessly 
through  the  newspaper,  and  spent  long  hours  lying  on 
his  back,  doing  nothing,  thinking  nothing.  He  was  too 
dazed  to  think,  though  he  was  aware  that  he  did  not  like 
himself.  He  was  self-repelled,  as  though  he  had  under 
gone  some  degradation  or  was  intrinsically  foul.  All 
that  was  god-like  in  him  was  blotted  out.  The  spur  of 
ambition  was  blunted;  he  had  no  vitality  with  which  to 
feel  the  prod  of  it.  He  was  dead.  His  soul  seemed  dead. 
He  was  a  beast,  a  work-beast.  He  saw  no  beauty  in  the 
sunshine  sifting  down  through  the  green  leaves,  nor  did 
the  azure  vault  of  the  sky  whisper  as  of  old  and  hint  of 
cosmic  vastness  and  secrets  trembling  to  disclosure.  Life 
was  intolerably  dull  and  stupid,  and  its  taste  was  bad 
in  his  mouth.  A  black  screen  was  drawn  across  his  mirror 
of  inner  vision,  and  fancy  lay  in  a  darkened  sick-room 
where  entered  no  ray  of  light.  He  envied  Joe,  down  in 
the  village,  rampant,  tearing  the  slats  off  the  bar,  his  brain 
gnawing  with  maggots,  exulting  in  maudlin  ways  over 
maudlin  things,  fantastically  and  gloriously  drunk  and 
forgetful  of  Monday  morning  and  the  week  of  deadening 
toil  to  come. 


MARTIN  EDEN  153 

A  third  week  went  by,  and  Martin  loathed  himself,  and 
loathed  life.  He  was  oppressed  by  a  sense  of  failure. 
Tl^ere  was  reason  for  the  editors  refusing  his  stuff.  He 
could  see  that  clearly  now,  and  laugh  at  himself  and  the 
dreams  he  had  dreamed.  Ruth  returned  his  "Sea  Lyrics" 
by  mail.  He  read  her  letter  apathetically.  She  did  her 
best  to  say  how  much  she  liked  them  and  that  they  were 
beautiful.  But  she  could  not  lie,  and  she  could  not 
disguise  the  truth  from  herself.  She  knew  they  were 
failures,  and  he  read  her  disapproval  in  every  perfunctory 
and  unenthusiastic  line  of  her  letter.  And  she  was  right. 
He  was  firmly  convinced  of  it  as  he  read  the  poems  over. 
Beauty  and  wonder  had  departed  from  him,  and  as  he 
read  the  poems  he  caught  himself  puzzling  as  to  what 
he  had  had  in  mind  when  he  wrote  them.  His  audac 
ities  of  phrase  struck  him  as  grotesque,  his  felicities  of 
expression  were  monstrosities,  and  everything  was  absurd, 
unreal,  and  impossible.  He  would  have  burned  the  "  Sea 
Lyrics  "  on  the  spot,  had  his  will  been  strong  enough  to 
set  them  aflame.  There  was  the  engine-room,  but  the 
exertion  of  carrying  them  to  the  furnace  was  not  worth 
while.  All  his  exertion  was  used  in  washing  other  per 
sons'  clothes.  He  did  not  have  any  left  for  private  affairs. 

He  resolved  that  when  Sunday  came  he  would  pull  him 
self  together  and  answer  Ruth's  letter.  But  Saturday 
afternoon,  after  work  was  finished  and  he  had  taken  a  bath, 
the  desire  to  forget  overpowered  him.  "  I  guess  I'll  go 
down  and  see  how  Joe's  getting  on,"  was  the  way  he  put 
it  to  himself;  and  in  the  same  moment  he  knew  that  he 
lied.  But  he  did  not  have  the  energy  to  consider  the 
lie.  If  he  had  had  the  energy,  he  would  have  refused  to 
consider  the  lie,  because  he  wanted  to  forget.  He  started 
for  the  village  slowly  and  casually,  increasing  his  pace 
in  spite  of  himself  as  he  neared  the  saloon. 

"  I  thought  you  was  on  the  water-wagon,"  was  Joe's 
greeting. 

Martin  did  not  deign  to  offer  excuses,  but  called  for 
whiskey,  filling  his  own  glass  brimming  before  he  passed 
the  bottle. 


154  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  Don't  take  all  night  about  it,"  he  said  roughly. 

The  other  was  dawdling  with  the  bottle,  and  Martin 
refused  to  wait  for  him,  tossing  the  glass  off  in  a  gulp  and 
refilling  it. 

"  Now,  I  can  wait  for  you,"  he  said  grimly;  "  but  hurry 
up." 

Joe  hurried,  and  they  drank  together. 

"The  work  did  it,  eh?"  Joe  queried. 

Martin  refused  to  discuss  the  matter. 

"  It's  fair  hell,  I  know,"  the  other  went  on,  "  but  I  kind 
of  hate  to  see  you  come  off  the  wagon,  Mart.  Well,  here's 
how!" 

Martin  drank  on  silently,  biting  out  his  orders  and 
invitations  and  awing  the  barkeeper,  an  effeminate  country 
youngster  with  watery  blue  eyes  and  hair  parted  in  the 
middle. 

"  It's  something  scandalous  the  way  they  work  us  poor 
devils,"  Joe  was  remarking.  "  If  I  didn't  bowl  up,  I'd 
break  loose  an'  burn  down  the  shebang.  My  bowlin'  up 
is  all  that  saves  'em,  I  can  tell  you  that." 

But  Martin  made  no  answer.  A  few  more  drinks,  and 
in  his  brain  he  felt  the  maggots  of  intoxication  beginning 
to  crawl.  Ah,  it  was  living,  the  first  breath  of  life  he 
had  breathed  in  three  weeks.  His  dreams  came  back  to 
him.  Fancy  came  out  of  the  darkened  room  and .  lured 
him  on,  a  thing  of  flaming  brightness.  His  mirror  of 
vision  was  silver-clear,  a  flashing,  dazzling  palimpsest  of 
imagery.  Wonder  and  beauty  walked  with  him,  hand 
in  hand,  and  all  power  was  his.  He  tried  to  tell  it  to  Joe., 
but  Joe  had  visions  of  his  own,  infallible  schemes  whereby 
he  would  escape  the  slavery  of  laundry- work  and  become 
himself  the  owner  of  a  great  steam  laundry. 

"I  tell  yeh,  Mart,  they  won't  be  no  kids  workin'  in 
my  laundry  —  not  on  yer  life.  An'  they  won't  be  no 
workin'  a  livin'  soul  after  six  P.M.  You  hear  me  talk ! 
They'll  be  machinery  enough  an'  hands  enough  to  do 
it  all  in  decent  workin'  hours,  an'  Mart,  s'help  me,  I'll 
make  yeh  superintendent  of  the  shebang  —  the  whole 
of  it,  all  of  it.  Now  here's  the  scheme.  I  get  on  the 


MARTIN  EDEN  155 

water-wagon  an'  save  my  money  for  two  years  —  save  an' 
then  — " 

But  Martin  turned  away,  leaving  him  to  tell  it  to  the 
barkeeper,  until  that  worthy  was  called  away  to  furnish 
drinks  to  two  farmers  who,  coming  in,  accepted  Mar 
tin's  invitation.  Martin  dispensed  royal  largess,  inviting 
everybody  up,  farm-hands,  a  stableman,  and  the  gardener's 
assistant  from  the  hotel,  the  barkeeper,  and  the  furtive 
hobo  who  slid  in  like  a  shadow  and  like  a  shadow  hovered 
at  the  end  of  the  bar. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MONDAY  morning,  Joe  groaned  over  the  first  truck  load 
of  clothes  to  the  washer. 

"  I  say,"  he  began. 

"  Don't  talk  to  me,"  Martin  snarled. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Joe,"  he  said  at  noon,  when  they  knocked 
off  for  dinner. 

Tears  came  into  the  other's  eyes. 

"  That's  all  right,  old  man,"  he  said.  "  We're  in  hell, 
an'  we  can't  help  ourselves.  An',  you  know,  I  kind  of 
like  you  a  whole  lot.  That's  what  made  it  hurt.  I  cot 
toned  to  you  from  the  first." 

Martin  shook  his  hand. 

"  Let's  quit,"  Joe  suggested.  "  Let's  chuck  it,  an'  go 
hoboin'.  I  ain't  never  tried  it,  but  it  must  be  dead  easy. 
An'  nothin'  to  do.  Just  think  of  it,  nothin'  to  do.  I 
was  sick  once,  typhoid,  in  the  hospital,  an'  it  was  beauti 
ful.  I  wish  I'd  get  sick  again." 

The  week  dragged  on.  The  hotel  was  full,  and  extra 
"  fancy  starch  "  poured  in  upon  them.  They  performed 
prodigies  of  valor.  They  fought  late  each  night  under 
the  electric  lights,  bolted  their  meals,  and  even  got  in  a 
half  hour's  work  before  breakfast.  Martin  no  longer  took 
his  cold  baths.  Every  moment  was  drive,  drive,  drive, 
and  Joe  was  the  masterful  shepherd  of  moments,  herding 
them  carefully,  never  losing  one,  counting  them  over  like 
a  miser  counting  gold,  working  on  in  a  frenzy,  toil-mad, 
a  feverish  machine,  aided  ably  by  that  other  machine 
that  thought  of  itself  as  once  having  been  one  Martin 
Eden,  a  man. 

But  it  was  only  at  rare  moments  that  Martin  was  able 
to  think.  The  house  of  thought  was  closed,  its  windows 
boarded  up,  and  he  was  its  shadowy  caretaker.  He  was 

156 


MARTIN  EDEN  157 

a  shadow.  JOG  was  right.  They  were  both  shadows, 
and  this  was  the  unending  limbo  of  toil.  Or  was  it  a 
dream  ?  Sometimes,  in  the  steaming,  sizzling  heat,  as  he 
swung  the  heavy  irons  back  and  forth  over  the  white  gar 
ments,  it  came  to  him  that  it  was  a  dream.  In  a  short 
while,  or  maybe  after  a  thousand  years  or  so,  he  would 
awake,  in  his  little  room  with  the  ink-stained  table,  and 
take  up  his  writing  where  he  had  left  off  the  day  before. 
Or  maybe  that  was  a  dream,  too,  and  the  awakening  would 
be  the  changing  of  the  watches,  when  he  would  drop 
down  out  of  his  bunk  in  the  lurching  forecastle  and  go 
up  on  deck,  under  the  tropic  stars,  and  take  the  wheel 
and  feel  the  cool  tradewind  blowing  through  his  flesh. 

Came  Saturday  and  its  hollow  victory  at  three  o'clock. 

*'  Guess  I'll  go  down  an'  get  a  glass  of  beer,"  Joe  said, 
in  the  queer,  monotonous  tones  that  marked  his  week-end 
collapse. 

Martin  seemed  suddenly  to  wake  up.  He  opened  the 
kit  bag  and  oiled  his  wheel,  putting  graphite  on  the 
chain  and  adjusting  the  bearings.  Joe  was  halfway 
down  to  the  saloon  when  Martin  passed  by,  bending  low 
over  the  handle-bars,  his  legs  driving  the  ninety-six  gear 
with  rhythmic  strength,  his  face  set  for  seventy  miles  of 
road  and  grade  and  dust.  He  slept  in  Oakland  that 
night,  and  on  Sunday  covered  the  seventy  miles  back. 
And  on  Monday  morning,  weary,  he  began  the  new 
week's  work,  but  he  had  kept  sober. 

A  fifth  week  passed,  and  a  sixth,  during  which  he  lived 
and  toiled  as  a  machine,  with  just  a  spark  of  something 
more  in  him,  just  a  glimmering  bit  of  soul,  that  compelled 
him,  at  each  week-end,  to  scorch  off  the  hundred  and  forty 
miles.  But  this  was  not  rest.  It  was  super-machinelike, 
and  it  helped  to  crush  out  the  glimmering  bit  of  soul  that 
was  all  that  was  left  him  from  former  life.  At  the  end  of 
the  seventh  week,  without  intending  it,  too  weak  to  resist, 
he  drifted  down  to  the  village  with  Joe  and  drowned  life 
and  found  life  until  Monday  morning. 

Again,  at  the  week-ends,  he  ground  out  the  one  hun 
dred  and  forty  miles,  obliterating  the  numbness  of  too 


158  MARTIN  EDEN 

great  exertion  by  the  numbness  of  still  greater  exertion. 
At  the  end  of  three  months  he  went  down  a  third  time  to 
the  village  with  Joe.  He  forgot,  and  lived  again,  and, 
living,  he  saw,  in  clear  illumination,  the  beast  he  was 
making  of  himself  —  not  by  the  drink,  but  by  the  work. 
The  drink  was  an  effect,  not  a  cause.  It  followed  inevi 
tably  upon  the  work,  as  the  night  follows  upon  the  day. 
Not  by  becoming  a  toil-beast  could  he  win  to  the  heights, 
was  the  message  the  whiskey  whispered  to  him,  and  he 
nodded  approbation.  The  whiskey  was  wise.  It  told 
secrets  on  itself. 

He  called  for  paper  and  pencil,  and  f  drinks  all 
around,  and  while  they  drank  his  very  good  health,  he 
clung  to  the  bar  and  scribbled. 

"  A  telegram,  Joe,"  he  said.     "  Read  it." 

Joe  read  it  with  a  drunken,  quizzical  leer.  But  what 
he  read  seemed  to  sober  him.  He  looked  at  the  other 
reproachfully,  tears  oozing  into  his  eyes  and  down  his 
cheeks. 

"  You  ain't  goin'  back  on  me,  Mart  ?  "  he  queried  hope 
lessly. 

Martin  nodded,  and  called  one  of  the  loungers  to  him 
to  take  the  message  to  the  telegraph  office. 

"  Hold  on,"  Joe  muttered  thickly.     "  Lemme  think." 

He  held  on  to  the  bar,  his  legs  wobbling  under  him, 
Martin's  arm  around  him  and  supporting  him,  while  he 
thought. 

"  Make  that  two  laundryrnen,"  he  said  abruptly. 
"  Here,  lemme  fix  it." 

"  What  are  you  quitting  for?  "  Martin  demanded. 

"  Same  reason  as  you." 

"  But  I'm  going  to  sea.     You  can't  do  that." 

"  Nope,"  was  the  answer,  "  but  I  can  hobo  all  right,  all 
right." 

Martin  looked  at  him  searchingly  for  a  moment,  then 
cried :  — 

"  By  God,  I  think  you're  right !  Better  a  hobo  than  a 
beast  of  toil.  Why,  man,  you'll  live.  And  that's  more 
than  you  ever  did  before." 


MARTIN  EDEN  159 

"  I  was  in  hospital,  once,"  Joe  corrected.  "  It  was 
beautiful.  Typhoid  —  did  I  tell  you  ?  " 

While  Martin  changed  the  telegram  to  "  two  laundry- 
men,"  Joe  went  on  :  — 

"I  never  wanted  to  drink  when  I  was  in  hospital. 
Funny,  ain't  it?  But  when  I've  ben  workin'  like  a 
slave  all  week,  I  just  got  to  bowl  up.  Ever  noticed  that 
cooks  drink  like  hell? — an'  bakers,  too  ?  It's  the  work. 
They've  sure  got  to.  Here,  lemme  pay  half  of  that 
telegram." 

"  I'll  shake  you  for  it,"  Martin  offered. 

"  Come  on,  everybody  drink,"  Joe  called,  as  they  rattled 
the  dice  and  rolled  them  out  on  the  damp  bar. 

Monday  morning  Joe  was  wild  with  anticipation.  He 
did  not  mind  his  aching  head,  nor  did  he  take  interest  in 
his  work.  Whole  herds  of  moments  stole  away  and  were 
lost  while  their  careless  shepherd  gazed  out  of  the  window 
at  the  sunshine  and  the  trees. 

"  Just  look  at  it ! "  he  cried.  "  An'  it's  all  mine  !  It's 
free.  I  can  lie  down  under  them  trees  an'  sleep  for  a 
thousan'  years  if  I  want  to.  Aw,  come  on,  Mart,  let's 
chuck  it.  What's  the  good  of  waitin'  another  moment. 
That's  the  land  of  nothin'  to  do  out  there,  an'  I  got  a 
ticket  for  it  —  an'  it  ain't  no  return  ticket,  b'gosh  ! " 

A  few  minutes  later,  filling  the  truck  with  soiled  clothes 
for  the  washer,  Joe  spied  the  hotel  manager's  shirt.  He 
knew  its  mark,  and  with  a  sudden  glorious  consciousness 
of  freedom  he  threw  it  on  the  floor  and  stamped  on  it. 

"  I  wish  you  was  in  it,  you  pig-headed  Dutchman  !  "  he 
shouted.  "  In  it,  an'  right  there  where  I've  got  you  1 
Take  that !  an'  that!  an'  that!  damn  you !  Hold  me  back, 
somebody !  Hold  me  back  1  " 

Martin  laughed  and  held  him  to  his  work.  On  Tues 
day  night  the  new  laundrymen  arrived,  and  the  rest  of 
the  week  was  spent  breaking  them  into  the  routine.  Joe 
sat  around  and  explained  his  system,  but  he  did  no  more 
work. 

"Not  a  tap,"  he  announced.  "Not  a  tap.  They  can 
fire  me  if  they  want  to,  but  if  they  do,  I'll  quit.  No 


160  MARTIN  EDEN 

more  work  in  mine,  thank  you  kindly.  Me  for  the 
freight  cars  an'  the  shade  under  the  trees.  Go  to  it,  you 
slaves!  That's  right.  Slave  an'  sweat!  Slave  an' 
sweat!  An'  when  you're  dead,  you'll  rot  the  same  as 
me,  an'  what's  it  matter  how  you  live  ?  —  eh  ?  Tell  me 
that  —  what's  it  matter  in  the  long  run  ?  " 

On  Saturday  they  drew  their  pay  and  came  to  the  part 
ing  of  the  ways. 

"  They  ain't  no  use  in  me  askin'  you  to  change  your 
mind  an'  hit  the  road  with  me?  "Joe  asked  hopelessly. 

Martin  shook  his  head.  He  was  standing  by  his  wheel, 
ready  to  start.  They  shook  hands,  and  Joe  held  on  to 
his  for  a  moment,  as  he  said  :  — 

"I'm  goin'  to  see  you  again,  Mart,  before  you  an' 
me  die.  That's  straight  dope.  I  feel  it  in  my  bones. 
Good-by,  Mart,  an'  be  good.  I  like  you  like  hell,  you 
know." 

He  stood,  a  forlorn  figure,  in  the  middle  of  the  road, 
watching  until  Martin  turned  a  bend  and  was  gone  from 
sight. 

"  He's  a  good  Indian,  that  boy,"  he  muttered.  "  A  good 
Indian." 

Then  he  plodded  down  the  road  himself,  to  the  water 
tank,  where   half   a  dozen   empties  lay  on  a  side-track 
waiting  for  the  up  freight. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

RUTH  and  her  family  were  home  again,  and  Martin,  re 
turned  to  Oakland,  saw  much  of  her.  Having  gained  her 
degree,  she  was  doing  no  more  studying ;  and  he,  having 
worked  all  vitality  out  of  his  mind  and  body,  was  doing 
no  writing.  This  gave  them  time  for  each  other  that 
they  had  never  had  before,  and  their  intimacy  ripened 
fast. 

At  first,  Martin  had  done  nothing  but  rest.  He  had 
slept  a  great  deal,  and  spent  long  hours  musing  and  think 
ing  and  doing  nothing.  He  was  like  one  recovering  from 
some  terrible  bout  of  hardship.  The  first  signs  of  re 
awakening  came  when  he  discovered  more  than  languid 
interest  in  the  daily  paper.  Then  he  began  to  read  again 
—  light  novels,  and  poetry;  and  after  several  days  more 
he  was  head  over  heels  in  his  long-neglected  Fiske.  His 
splendid  body  and  health  made  new  vitality,  and  he 
possessed  all  the  resiliency  and  rebound  of  youth. 

Ruth  showed  her  disappointment  plainly  when  he  an. 
nounced  that  he  was  going  to  sea  for  another  voyage  as 
soon  as  he  was  well  rested. 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  do  that  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Money,"  was  the  answer.  "  I'll  have  to  lay  in  a 
supply  for  my  next  attack  on  the  editors.  Money  is  the 
sinews  of  war,  in  my  case  — money  and  patience." 

"  But  if  all  you  wanted  was  money,  why  didn't  you  stay 
in  the  laundry  ?  " 

"  Because  the  laundry  was  making  a  beast  of  me.  Too 
much  work  of  that  sort  drives  to  drink." 

She  stared  at  him  with  horror  in  her  eyes. 

"  Do  you  mean  —  ?  "  she  quavered. 

It  would  have  been  easy  for  him  to  get  out  of  it ;  but 
his  natural  impulse  was  for  frankness,  and  he  remembered 
his  old  resolve  to  be  frank,  no  matter  what  happened. 
M  161 


162  MARTIN  EDEN 

**  Yes,"  he  answered.     "Just  that.     Several  times." 

She  shivered  and  drew  away  from  him. 

"No  man  that  I  have  ever  known  did  that — ever  did  that. " 

"Then  they  never  worked  in  the  laundry  at  Shelly 
Hot  Springs,"  he  laughed  bitterly.  "Toil  is  a  good 
thing.  It  is  necessary  for  human  health,  so  all  the 
preachers  say,  and  Heaven  knows  I've  never  been  afraid 
of  it.  But  there  is  such  a  thing  as  too  much  of  a 
good  thing,  and  the  laundry  up  there  is  one  of  them. 
And  that's  why  I  'm  going  to  sea  one  more  voyage.  It 
will  be  my  last,  I  think,  for  when  I  come  back,  I  shall 
break  into  the  magazines.  I  am  certain  of  it." 

She  was  silent,  unsympathetic,  and  he  watched  her 
moodily,  realizing  how  impossible  it  was  for  her  to  under 
stand  what  he  had  been  through. 

"  Some  day  I  shall  write  it  up  — 4  The  Degradation  of 
Toil '  or  the  4  Psychology  of  Drink  in  the  Working-class,' 
or  something  like  that  for  a  title." 

Never,  since  the  first  meeting,  had  they  seemed  so  far 
apart  as  that  day.  His  confession,  told  in  frankness,  with 
the  spirit  of  revolt  behind,  had  repelled  her.  But  she 
was  more  shocked  by  the  repulsion  itself  than  by  the 
cause  of  it.  It  pointed  out  to  her  how  near  she  had 
drawn  to  him,  and  once  accepted,  it  paved  the  way  for 
greater  intimacy.  Pity,  too,  was  aroused,  and  innocent, 
idealistic  thoughts  of  reform.  She  would  save  this  raw 
young  man  who  had  come  so  far.  She  would  save  him 
from  the  curse  of  his  early  environment,  and  she  would 
save  him  from  himself  in  spite  of  himself.  And  all  this 
affected  her  as  a  very  noble  state  of  consciousness  ;  nor 
did  she  dream  that  behind  it  and  underlying  it  ^ere  the 
jealousy  and  desire  of  love. 

They  rode  on  their  wheels  much  in  the  delightful  fall 
weather,  and  out  in  the  hills  they  read  poetry  aloud,  now 
one  and  now  the  other,  noble,  uplifting  poetry  that 
turned  one's  thoughts  to  higher  things.  Renunciation, 
sacrifice,  patience,  industry,  and  high  endeavor  were  the 
principles  she  thus  indirectly  preached  —  such  abstrac 
tions  being  objectified  in  her  mind  by  her  father,  and 


MARTIN  EDEN  163 

Mr.  Butler,  and  by  Andrew  Carnegie,  who,  from  a  poor 
immigrant  boy  had  arisen  to  be  the  book-giver  of  the  world. 
All  of  which  was  appreciated  and  enjoyed  by  Martin. 
He  followed  her  mental  processes  more  clearly  now,  and  her 
soul  was  no  longer  the  sealed  wonder  it  had  been.  He 
was  on  terms  of  intellectual  equality  with  her.  But  the 
points  of  disagreement  did  not  affect  his  love.  His  love 
was  more  ardent  than  ever,  for  he  loved  her  for  what  she 
was,  and  even  her  physical  frailty  was  an  added  charm  in 
his  eyes.  He  read  of  sickly  Elizabeth  Barrett,  who  for 
years  had  not  placed  her  feet  upon  the  ground,  until  that 
day  of  flame  when  she  eloped  with  Browning  and  stood 
upright,  upon  the  earth,  under  the  open  sky;  and  what 
Browning  had  done  for  her,  Martin  decided  he  could  do 
for  Ruth.  But  first,  she  must  love  him.  The  rest  would 
be  easy.  He  would  give  her  strength  and  health.  And 
he  caught  glimpses  of  their  life,  in  the  years  to  come, 
wherein,  against  a  background  of  work  and  comfort  and 
general  well-being,  he  saw  himself  and  Ruth  reading 
and  discussing  poetry,  she  propped  amid  a  multitude  of 
cushions  on  the  ground  while  she  read  aloud  to  him. 
This  was  the  key  to  the  life  they  would  live.  And 
always  he  saw  that  particular  picture.  Sometimes  it  was 
she  who  leaned  against  him  while  he  read,  one  arm  about 
her,  her  head  upon  his  shoulder.  Sometimes  they  pored 
together  over  the  printed  pages  of  beauty.  Then,  too, 
she  loved  nature,  and  with  generous  imagination  he 
changed  the  scene  of  their  reading  —  sometimes  they 
read  in  closed-in  valleys  with  precipitous  walls,  or  in 
high  mountain  meadows,  and,  again,  down  by  the  gray 
sand-dunes  with  a  wreath  of  billows  at  their  feet,  or  afar 
on  some  volcanic  tropic  isle  where  waterfalls  descended 
and  became  mist,  reaching  the  sea  in  vapor  veils  that 
swayed  and  shivered  to  every  vagrant  wisp  of  wind.  But 
always,  in  the  foreground,  lords  of  beauty  and  eternally 
reading  and  sharing,  lay  he  and  Ruth,  and  always  in  the 
background  that  was  beyond  the  background  of  nature, 
dim  and  hazy,  were  work  and  success  and  money  earned 
that  made  them  free  of  the  world  and  all  its  treasures. 


164  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  I  should  recommend  my  little  girl  to  be  careful,"  her 
mother  warned  her  one  day. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean.  But  it  is  impossible.  He  is 
not  —  " 

Ruth  was  blushing,  but  it  was  the  blush  of  maidenhood 
called  upon  for  the  first  time  to  discuss  the  sacred  things 
of  life  with  a  mother  held  equally  sacred. 

"  Your  kind."    Her  mother  finished  the  sentence  for  her. 

Ruth  nodded. 

"  I  did  not  want  to  say  it,  but  he  is  not.  He  is  rough, 
brutal,  strong  —  too  strong.  He  has  not — " 

She  hesitated  and  could  not  go  on.  It  was  a  new  ex 
perience,  talking  over  such  matters  with  her  mother.  And 
again  her  mother  completed  her  thought  for  her. 

"  He  has  not  lived  a  clean  life,  is  what  you  wanted  to 
say." 

Again  Ruth  nodded,  and  again  a  blush  mantled  her  face. 

"  It  is  just  that,"  she  said.  "  It  has  not  been  his  fault, 
but  he  has  played  much  with  —  " 

"With  pitch?" 

"  Yes,  with  pitch.  And  he  frightens  me.  Sometimes 
I  am  positively  in  terror  of  him,  when  he  talks  in  that  free 
and  easy  way  of  the  things  he  has  done  —  as  if  they  did 
not  matter.  They  do  matter,  don't  they  ?  " 

They  sat  with  their  arms  twined  around  each  other,  and 
in  the  pause  her  mother  patted  her  hand  and  waited  for 
her  to  go  on. 

"  But  I  am  interested  in  him  dreadfully,"  she  continued. 
"  In  a  way  he  is  my  protege.  Then,  too,  he  is  my  first  boy 
friend  —  but  not  exactly  friend;  rather  protege  and  friend 
combined.  Sometimes,  too,  when  he  frightens  me,  it  seems 
that  he  is  a  bulldog  I  have  taken  for  a  plaything,  like  some 
of  the  '  frat '  girls,  and  he  is  tugging  hard,  and  showing 
his  teeth,  and  threatening  to  break  loose." 

Again  her  mother  waited. 

"  lie  interests  me,  I  suppose,  like  the  bulldog.  And  there 
is  much  good  in  him,  too;  but  there  is  much  in  him 
that  I  would  not  like  in  —  in  the  other  way.  You  see,  I 
have  been  thinking.  He  swears,  he  smokes,  he  drinks,  he 


MARTIN  EDEX  165 

has  fought  with  his  fists  (he  has  told  me  so,  and  he  likes 
it;  he  says  so).  He  is  all  that  a  man  should  not  be  —  a 
man  I  would  want  for  my  — "  her  voice  sank  very  low 
—  "  husband.  Then  he  is  too  strong.  My  prince  must  be 
tall,  and  slender,  and  dark  —  a  graceful,  bewitching  prince. 
No,  there  is  no  danger  of  my  falling  in  love  with  Martin 
Eden.  It  would  be  the  worst  fate  that  could  befall  me." 

"  But  it  is  not  that  that  I  spoke  about,"  her  mother 
equivocated.  "  Have  you  thought  about  him  ?  He  is  so 
ineligible  in  every  way,  you  know,  and  suppose  he  should 
come  to  love  you  ?  " 

"  But  he  does  —  already,"  she  cried. 

"  It  was  to  be  expected,"  Mrs.  Morse  said  gently.  "  How 
could  it  be  otherwise  with  any  one  who  knew  you  ?  " 

"  Olney  hates  me  !  "  she  exclaimed  passionately.  "  And 
I  hate  Olney.  I  feel  always  like  a  cat  when  he  is  around. 
I  feel  that  I  must  be  nasty  to  him,  and  even  when  I  don't 
happen  to  feel  that  way,  why,  he's  nasty  to  me,  anyway. 
But  I  am  happy  with  Martin  Eden.  No  one  ever  loved 
me  before  —  no  man,  I  mean,  in  that  way.  And  it  is  sweet 
to  be  loved  —  that  way.  You  know  what  I  mean,  mother 
dear.  It  is  sweet  to  feel  that  you  are  really  and  truly  a 
woman."  She  buried  her  face  in  her  mother's  lap,  sobbing. 
"  You  think  I  am  dreadful,  I  know,  but  I  am  honest,  and 
I  tell  you  just  how  I  feel." 

Mrs.  Morse  was  strangely  sad  and  happy.  Her  child- 
daughter,  who  was  a  bachelor  of  arts,  was  gone  ;  but  in  her 
place  was  a  woman-daughter.  The  experiment  had  suc 
ceeded.  The  strange  void  in  Ruth's  nature  had  been 
filled,  and  filled  without  danger  or  penalty.  This  rough 
sailor-fellow  had  been  the  instrument,  and,  though  Ruth 
did  not  love  him,  he  had  made  her  conscious  of  her  wom 
anhood. 

"  His  hand  trembles,"  Ruth  was  confessing,  her  face,  for 
shame's  sake,  still  buried.  "  It  is  most  amusing  and  ridic 
ulous,  but  I  feel  sorry  for  him,  too.  And  when  his  hands 
are  too  trembly,  and  his  eyes  too  shiny,  why,  I  lecture  him 
about  his  life  and  the  wrong  way  he  is  going  about  it  to 
mend  it.  But  he  worships  me,  I  know.  His  eyes  and  his 
hands  do  not  lie.  And  it  makes  me  feel  grown-up,  the 


166  MARTIN  EDEN 

thought  of  it,  the  very  thought  of  it ;  and  I  feel  that  I  am 
possessed  of  something  that  is  by  rights  my  own  —  that 
makes  me  like  the  other  girls  —  and  —  and  young  women. 
And,  then,  too,  I  knew  that  I  was  not  like  them  before, 
and  I  knew  that  it  worried  you.  You  thought  you  did  not 
let  me  know  that  dear  worry  of  yours,  but  I  did,  and  I 
wanted  to  —  'to  make  good,'  as  Martin  Eden  says." 

It  was  a  holy  hour  for  mother  and  daughter,  and  their 
eyes  were  wet  as  they  talked  on  in  the  twilight,  Ruth  all 
white  innocence  and  frankness,  her  mother  sympathetic, 
receptive,  yet  calmly  explaining  and  guiding. 

"  He  is  four  years  younger  than  you,"  she  said.  "  He 
has  no  place  in  the  world.  He  has  neither  position  nor 
salary.  He  is  impractical.  Loving  you,  he  should,  in  the 
name  of  common  sense,  be  doing  something  that  would 
give  him  the  right  to  marry,  instead  of  paltering  around 
with  those  stories  of  his  and  with  childish  dreams.  Mar 
tin  Eden,  I  am  afraid,  will  never  grow  up.  He  does  not 
take  to  responsibility  and  a  man's  work  in  the  world  like 
your  father  did,  or  like  all  our  friends,  Mr.  Butler  for  one. 
Martin  Eden,  I  am  afraid,  will  never  be  a  money-earner. 
And  this  world  is  so  ordered  that  money  is  necessary  to 
happiness  —  oh,  no,  not  these  swollen  fortunes,  but  enough 
of  money  to  permit  of  common  comfort  and  decency.  He 
—  he  has  never  spoken  ?  " 

"  He  has  not  breathed  a  word.  He  has  not  attempted 
to  ;  but  if  he  did,  I  would  not  let  him,  because,  you  see,  I 
do  not  love  him." 

"I  am  glad  of  that.  I  should  not  care  to  see  my 
daughter,  my  one  daughter,  who  is  so  clean  and  pure,  love 
a  man  like  him.  There  are  noble  men  in  the  world  who 
are  clean  and  true  and  manly.  Wait  for  them.  You  will 
find  one  some  day,  and  you  will  love  him  and  be  loved  by 
him,  and  you  will  be  happy  with  him  as  your  father  and  I 
have  been  happy  with  each  other.  And  there  is  one  thing 
you  must  always  carry  in  mind  —  " 

"Yes,  mother." 

Mrs.  Morse's  voice  was  low  and  sweet  as  she  said,  "  And 
that  is  the  children." 


MARTIN  EDEN  167 

"I  —  have  thought  about  them,"  Ruth  confessed,  re 
membering  the  wanton  thoughts  that  had  vexed  her  in  the 
past,  her  face  again  red  with  maiden  shame  that  she  should 
be  telling  such  things. 

"And  it  is  that,  the  children,  that  makes  Mr.  Eden  im 
possible,"  Mrs.  Morse  went  on  incisively.  "  Their  heritage 
must  be  clean,  and  he  is,  I  am  afraid,  not  clean.  Your 
father  has  told  me  of  sailors'  lives,  and  —  and  you  under 
stand." 

Ruth  pressed  her  mother's  hand  in  assent,  feeling  that 
she  really  did  understand,  though  her  conception  was  of 
something  vague,  remote,  and  terrible  that  was  beyond  the 
scope  of  imagination. 

"  You  know  I  do  nothing  without  telling  you,"  she 
began.  "  —  Only,  sometimes  you  must  ask  me,  like  this 
time.  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  but  I  did  not  know  how.  It 
is  false  modesty,  I  know  it  is  that,  but  you  can  make  it 
easy  for  me.  Sometimes,  like  this  time,  you  must  ask  me, 
you  must  give  me  a  chance. 

"Why,  mother,  you  are  a  woman, too!"  she  cried  ex 
ultantly,  as  they  stood  up,  catching  her  mother's  hands  and 
standing  erect,  facing  her  in  the  twilight,  conscious  of  a 
strangely  sweet  equality  between  them.  "  I  should  never 
have  thought  of  you  in  that  way  if  we  had  not  had  this 
talk.  I  had  to  learn  that  I  was  a  woman  to  know  that  you 
were  one,  too." 

"We  are  women  together,"  her  mother  said,  drawing 
her  to  her  and  kissing  her.  "  We  are  women  together," 
she  repeated,  as  they  went  out  of  the  room,  their  arms 
around  each  other's  waists,  their  hearts  swelling  with  a 
new  sense  of  companionship. 

"  Our  little  girl  has  become  a  woman,"  Mrs.  Morse  said 
proudly  to  her  husband  an  hour  later. 

"  That  means,"  he  said,  after  a  long  look  at  his  wife, 
"that  means  she  is  in  love." 

"No,  but  that  she  is  loved,"  was  the  smiling  rejoinder. 
"  The  experiment  has  succeeded.  She  is  awakened  at  last. " 

"  Then  we'll  have  to  get  rid  of  him."  Mr.  Morse  spoke 
briskly,  in  matter-of-fact,  businesslike  tones. 


168  MARTIN  EDEN 

But  his  wife  shook  her  head.  "It  will  not  be  necessary. 
Ruth  says  he  is  going  to  sea  in  a  few  days.  When  he 
comes  back,  she  will  not  be  here.  We  will  send  her  to 
Aunt  Clara's.  And,  besides,  a  year  in  the  East,  with  the 
change  in  climate,  people,  ideas,  and  everything,  is  just 
the  thing  she  needs." 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  desire  to  write  was  stirring  in  Martin  once  more. 
Stories  and  poems  were  springing  into  spontaneous  creation 
in  his  brain,  and  he  made  notes  of  them  against  the  future 
time  when  he  would  give  them  expression.  But  he  did 
not  write.  This  was  his  little  vacation  ;  he  had  resolved 
to  devote  it  to  rest  and  love,  and  in  both  matters  he  pros 
pered.  He  was  soon  spilling  over  with  vitality,  and  each 
day  he  saw  Ruth,  at  the  moment  of  meeting,  she  experi 
enced  the  old  shock  of  his  strength  and  health. 

"  Be  careful,"  her  mother  warned  her  once  again.  "  I 
am  afraid  you  are  seeing  too  much  of  Martin  Eden." 

But  Ruth  laughed  from  security.  She  was  sure  of  her 
self,  and  in  a  few  days  he  would  be  off  to  sea.  Then,  by 
the  time  he  returned,  she  would  be  away  on  her  visit  East. 
There  was  a  magic,  however,  in  the  strength  and  health  of 
Martin.  He,  too,  had  been  told  of  her  contemplated  East 
ern  trip,  and  he  felt  the  need  for  haste.  Yet  he  did  not 
know  how  to  make  love  to  a  girl  like  Ruth.  Then,  too,  he 
was  handicapped  by  the  possession  of  a  great  fund  of  ex 
perience  with  girls  and  women  who  had  been  absolutely 
different  from  her.  They  had  known  about  love  and  life 
and  flirtation,  while  she  knew  nothing  about  such  things. 
Her  prodigious  innocence  appalled  him,  freezing  on  his  lips 
all  ardors  of  speech,  and  convincing  him,  in  spite  of  himself, 
of  his  own  unworthiness.  Also  he  was  handicapped  in 
another  way.  He  had  himself  never  been  in  love  before. 
He  had  liked  women  in  that  turgid  past  of  his,  and  been 
fascinated  by  some  of  them,  but  he  had  not  known  what  it 
was  to  love  them.  He  had  whistled  in  a  masterful,  care 
less  way,  and  they  had  come  to  him.  They  had  been 
diversions,  incidents,  part  of  the  game  men  play,  but  a 
small  part  at  most.  And  now,  and  for  the  first  time,  he 

169 


170  MARTIN  EDEN 

was  a  suppliant,  tender  and  timid  and  doubting.  He  did 
not  know  the  way  of  love,  nor  its  speech,  while  he  was 
frightened  at  his  loved  one's  clear  innocence. 

In  the  course  of  getting  acquainted  with  a  varied  world, 
whirling  on  through  the  ever  changing  phases  of  it,  he  had 
learned  a  rule  of  conduct  which  was  to  the  effect  that  when 
one  played  a  strange  game,  he  should  let  the  other  fellow 
play  first.  This  had  stood  him  in  good  stead  a  thousand 
times  and  trained  him  as  an  observer  as  well.  He  knew 
how  to  watch  the  thing  that  was  strange,  and  to  wait  for 
a  weakness,  for  a  place  of  entrance,  to  divulge  itself.  It 
was  like  sparring  for  an  opening  in  fist-fighting.  And 
when  such  an  opening  came,  he  knew  by  long  experience 
to  play  for  it  and  to  play  hard. 

So  he  waited  with  Ruth  and  watched,  desiring  to  speak 
his  love  but  not  daring.  He  was  afraid  of  shocking  her, 
and  he  was  not  sure  of  himself.  Had  he  but  known  it, 
he  was  following  the  right  course  with  her.  Love  came 
into  the  world  before  articulate  speech,  and  in  its  own 
early  youth  it  had  learned  ways  and  means  that  it  had 
never  forgotten.  It  was  in  this  old,  primitive  way  that 
Martin  wooed  Ruth.  He  did  not  know  he  was  doing  it 
at  first,  though  later  he  divined  it.  The  touch  of  his 
hand  on  hers  was  vastly  more  potent  than  any  word  he 
could  utter,  the  impact  of  his  strength  on  her  imagination 
was  more  alluring  than  the  printed  poems  and  spoken 
passions  of  a  thousand  generations  of  lovers.  Whatever 
his  tongue  could  express  would  have  appealed,  in  part,  to 
her  judgment ;  but  the  touch  of  hand,  the  fleeting  con 
tact,  made  its  way  directly  to  her  instinct.  Her  judg 
ment  was  as  young  as  she,  but  her  instincts  were  as  old 
as  the  race  and  older.  They  had  been  young  when  love 
was  young,  and  they  were  wiser  than  convention  and 
opinion  and  all  the  new-born  things.  So  her  judgment 
did  not  act.  There  was  no  call  upon  it,  and  she  did 
not  realize  the  strength  of  the  appeal  Martin  made  from 
moment  to  moment  to  her  love-nature.  That  he  loved 
her,  on  the  other  hand,  was  as  clear  as  day,  and  she  con 
sciously  delighted  in  beholding  his  love-manifestations  — 


MARTIN  EDEN      •  171 

the  glowing  eyes  with  their  tender  lights,  the  trembling 
hands,  and  the  never  failing  swarthy  flush  that  flooded 
darkly  under  his  sunburn.  She  even  went  farther,  in  a 
timid  way  inciting  him,  but  doing  it  so  delicately  that 
he  never  suspected,  and  doing  it  half-consciously,  so  that 
she  scarcely  suspected  herself.  She  thrilled  with  these 
proofs  of  her  power  that  proclaimed  her  a  woman,  and 
she  took  an  Eve-like  delight  in  tormenting  him  and 
playing  upon  him. 

Tongue-tied  by  inexperience  and  by  excess  of  ardor, 
wooing  unwittingly  and  awkwardly,  Martin  continued  his 
approach  by  contact.  The  touch  of  his  hand  was  pleasant 
to  her,  and  something  deliciously  more  than  pleasant. 
Martin  did  not  know  it,  but  he  did  know  that  it  was  not 
distasteful  to  her.  Not  that  they  touched  hands  often, 
save  at  meeting  and  parting  ;  but  that  in  handling  the 
bicycles,  in  strapping  on  the  books  of  verse  they  carried 
into  the  hills,  and  in  conning  the  pages  of  books  side  by 
side,  there  were  opportunities  for  hand  to  stray  against 
hand.  And  there  were  opportunities,  too,  for  her  hair  to 
brush  his  cheek,  and  for  shoulder  to  touch  shoulder,  as 
they  leaned  together  over  the  beauty  of  the  books.  She 
smiled  to  herself  at  vagrant  impulses  which  arose  from 
nowhere  and  suggested  that  she  rumple  his  hair  ;  while 
he  desired  greatly,  when  they  tired  of  reading,  to  rest  his 
head  in  her  lap  and  dream  with  closed  eyes  about  the 
future  that  was  to  be  theirs.  On  Sunday  picnics  at 
Shellmound  Park  and  Schuetzen  Park,  in  the  past,  he 
had  rested  his  head  on  many  laps,  and,  usually,  he  had 
slept  soundly  and  selfishly  while  the  girls  shaded  his  face 
from  the  sun  and  looked  down  and  loved  him  and  won 
dered  at  his  lordly  carelessness  of  their  love.  To  rest  his 
head  in  a  girl's  lap  had  been  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world 
until  now,  and  now  he  found  Ruth's  lap  inaccessible  and 
impossible.  Yet  it  was  right  here,  in  his  reticence,  that 
the  strength  of  his  wooing  lay.  It  was  because  of  this 
reticence  that  he  never  alarmed  her.  Herself  fastidious 
and  timid,  she  never  awakened  to  the  perilous  trend  of 
their  intercourse.  Subtly  and  unaware  she  grew  toward 


172  MARTIN  EDEN 

him  and  closer  to  him,  while  he,  sensing  the  growing  close- 
ness,  longed  to  dare  but  was  afraid. 

Once  he  dared,  one  afternoon,  when  he  found  her  in  the 
darkened  living  room  with  a  blinding  headache. 

"  Nothing  can  do  it  any  good,"  she  had  answered  his 
inquiries.  "  And  besides,  I  don't  take  headache  powders. 
Doctor  Hall  won't  permit  me." 

"  I  can  cure  it,  I  think,  and  without  drugs,"  was  Mar 
tin's  answer.  "  I  am  not  sure,  of  course,  but  I'd  like  to 
try.  It's  simply  massage.  I  learned  the  trick  first  from 
the  Japanese.  They  are  a  race  of  masseurs,  you  know. 
Then  I  learned  it  all  over  again  with  variations  from  the 
Hawaiians.  They  call  it  lomi-lomi.  It  can  accomplish 
most  of  the  things  drugs  accomplish  and  a  few  things 
that  drugs  can't." 

Scarcely  had  his  hands  touched  her  head  when  she 
sighed  deeply. 

"  That  is  so  good,"  she  said. 

She  spoke  once  again,  half  an  hour  later,  when  she 
asked,  "  Aren't  you  tired  ?  " 

The  question  was  perfunctory,  and  she  knew  what  the 
answer  would  be.  Then  she  lost  herself  in  drowsy  con 
templation  of  the  soothing  balm  of  his  strength.  Life 
poured  from  the  ends  of  his  fingers,  driving  the  pain 
before  it,  or  so  it  seemed  to  her,  until  with  the  easement 
of  pain,  she  fell  asleep  and  he  stole  away. 

She  called  him  up  by  telephone  that  evening  to  thank 
him. 

"  I  slept  until  dinner,"  she  said.  "  You  cured  me  com 
pletely,  Mr.  Eden,  and  I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you." 

He  was  warm,  and  bungling  of  speech,  and  very  happy, 
as  he  replied  to  her,  and  there  was  dancing  in  his  mind, 
throughout  the  telephone  conversation,  the  memory  of 
Browning  and  of  sickly  Elizabeth  Barrett.  What  had 
been  done  could  be  done  again,  and  he,  Martin  Eden, 
could  do  it  and  would  do  it  for  Ruth  Morse.  He  went 
back  to  his  room  and  to  the  volume  of  Spencer's  "  Sociol 
ogy"  lying  open  on  the  bed.  But  he  could  not  read. 
Love  tormented  him  and  overrode  his  will,  so  that,  de- 


MARTIN  EDEN  173 

spite  all  determination,  he  found  himself  at  the  little  ink- 
stained  table.  The  sonnet  he  composed  that  night  was 
the  first  of  a  love-cycle  of  fifty  sonnets  which  was  com 
pleted  within  two  months.  He  had  the  "  Love-sonnets 
from  the  Portuguese  "  in  mind  as  he  wrote,  and  he  wrote 
under  the  best  conditions  for  great  work,  at  a  climacteric 
of  living,  in  the  throes  of  his  own  sweet  love-madness. 

The  many  hours  he  was  not  with  Ruth  he  devoted  to 
the  "Love-cycle,"  to  reading  at  home,  or  to  the  public 
reading-rooms,  where  he  got  more  closely  in  touch  with 
the  magazines  of  the  day  and  the  nature  of  their  policy 
and  content.  The  hours  he  spent  with  Ruth  were  mad 
dening  alike  in  promise  and  in  inconclusiveness.  It  was 
a  week  after  he  cured  her  headache  that  a  moonlight  sail 
on  Lake  Merritt  was  proposed  by  Norman  and  seconded 
by  Arthur  and  Olney.  Martin  was  the  only  one  capable 
of  handling  a  boat,  and  he  was  pressed  into  service.  Ruth 
sat  near  him  in  the  stern,  while  the  three  young  fellows 
lounged  amidships,  deep  in  a  wordy  wrangle  over  "  frat " 
affairs. 

The  moon  had  not  yet  risen,  and  Ruth,  gazing  into  the 
starry  vault  of  the  sky  and  exchanging  no  speech  with 
Martin,  experienced  a  sudden  feeling  of  loneliness.  She 
glanced  at  him.  A  puff  of  wind  was  heeling  the  boat 
over  till  the  deck  was  awash,  and  he,  one  hand  on  tiller 
and  the  other  on  main-sheet,  was  luffing  slightly,  at  the 
same  time  peering  ahead  to  make  out  the  near-lying  north 
shore.  He  was  unaware  of  her  gaze,  and  she  watched 
him  intently,  speculating  fancifully  about  the  strange 
warp  of  soul  that  led  him,  a  young  man  with  signal 
powers,  to  fritter  away  his  time  on  the  writing  of  stories 
and  poems  foredoomed  to  mediocrity  and  failure. 

Her  eyes  wandered  along  the  strong  throat,  dimly  seen 
in  the  starlight,  and  over  the  firm-poised  head,  and  the  old 
desire  to  lay  her  hands  upon  his  neck  came  back  to  her. 
The  strength  she  abhorred  attracted  her.  Her  feeling  of 
loneliness  became  more  pronounced,  and  she  felt  tired. 
Her  position  on  the  heeling  boat  irked  her,  and  she  re 
membered  the  headache  he  had  cured  and  the  soothing 


174  MARTIN  EDEN 

rest  that  resided  in  him.  He  was  sitting  beside  her,  quite 
beside  her,  and  the  boat  seemed  to  tilt  her  toward  liim. 
Then  arose  in  her  the  impulse  to  lean  against  him,  to  rest 
herself  against  his  strength  —  a  vague,  half-formed  impulse, 
which,  even  as  she  considered  it,  mastered  her  and  made 
her  lean  toward  him.  Or  was  it  the  heeling  of  the  boat  ? 
She  did  not  know.  She  never  knew.  She  knew  only  that 
she  was  leaning  against  him  and  that  the  easement  and 
soothing  rest  were  very  good.  Perhaps  it  had  been  the 
boat's  fault,  but  she  made  no  effort  to  retrieve  it.  She 
leaned  lightly  against  his  shoulder,  but  she  leaned,  and 
she  continued  to  lean  when  he  shifted  his  position  to 
make  it  more  comfortable  for  her. 

It  was  a  madness,  but  she  refused  to  consider  the  mad 
ness.  She  was  no  longer  herself  but  a  woman,  with  a 
woman's  clinging  need;  and  though  she  leaned  ever  so 
lightly,  the  need  seemed  satisfied.  She  was  no  longer 
tired.  Martin  did  not  speak.  Had  he,  the  spell  would 
have  been  broken.  But  his  reticence  of  love  prolonged 
it.  He  was  dazed  and  dizzy.  He  could  not  understand 
what  was  happening.  It  was  too  wonderful  to  be  any 
thing  but  a  delirium.  He  conquered  a  mad  desire  to  let 
go  sheet  and  tiller  and  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms.  His  intui 
tion  told  him  it  was  the  wrong  thing  to  do,  and  he  was 
glad  that  sheet  and  tiller  kept  his  hands  occupied  and 
fended  off  temptation.  But  he  luffed  the  boat  less  deli 
cately,  spilling  the  wind  shamelessly  from  the  sail  so  as 
to  prolong  the  tack  to  the  north  shore.  The  shore  would 
compel  him  to  go  about,  and  the  contact  would  be  broken. 
He  sailed  with  skill,  stopping  way  on  the  boat  without 
exciting  the  notice  of  the  wranglers,  and  mentally  forgiv 
ing  his  hardest  voyages  in  that  they  had  made  this  marvel 
lous  night  possible,  giving  him  mastery  over  sea  and  boat 
and  wind  so  that  he  could  sail  with  her  beside  him,  her 
dear  weight  against  him  on  his  shoulder. 

When  the  first  light  of  the  rising  moon  touched  the  sail, 
illuminating  the  boat  with  pearly  radiance,  Ruth  moved 
away  from  him.  And,  even  as  she  moved,  she  felt  him 
move  away.  The  impulse  to  avoid  detection  was  mutual. 


MARTIN  EDEN  175 

The  episode  was  tacitly  and  secretly  intimate.  She  sat 
apart  from  him  with  burning  cheeks,  while  the  full  force 
of  it  came  home  to  her.  She  had  been  guilty  of  something- 
she  would  not  have  her  brothers  see,  nor  Olney  see.  Why 
had  she  done  it  ?  She  had  never  done  anything  like  it  in. 
her  life,  and  yet  she  had  been  moonlight-sailing  with 
young  men  before.  She  had  never  desired  to  do  anything 
like  it.  She  was  overcome  with  shame  and  with  the  mys 
tery  of  her  own  burgeoning  womanhood.  She  stole  a  glance 
at  Martin,  who  was  busy  putting  the  boat  about  on  the  other 
tack,  and  she  could  have  hated  him  for  having  made  her  do 
an  immodest  and  shameful  thing.  And  he,  of  all  men  ! 
Perhaps  her  mother  was  right,  and  she  was  seeing  too  much 
of  him.  It  would  never  happen  again,  she  resolved,  and 
she  would  see  less  of  him  in  the  future.  She  entertained 
a  wild  idea  of  explaining  to  him  the  first  time  they  were 
alone  together,  of  lying  to  him,  of  mentioning  casually  the 
attack  of  faintness  that  had  overpowered  her  just  before 
the  moon  came  up.  Then  she  remembered  how  they  had 
drawn  mutually  away  before  the  revealing  moon,  and  she 
knew  he  would  know  it  for  a  lie. 

In  the  days  that  swiftly  followed  she  was  no  longer  her 
self  but  a  strange,  puzzling  creature,  wilful  over  judgment 
and  scornful  of  self -analysis,  refusing  to  peer  into  the  fu 
ture  or  to  think  about  herself  and  whither  she  was  drifting. 
She  was  in  a  fever  of  tingling  mystery,  alternately  fright 
ened  and  charmed,  and  in  constant  bewilderment.  She 
had  one  idea  firmly  fixed,  however,  which  insured  her  se 
curity.  She  would  not  let  Martin  speak  his  love.  As  long 
as  she  did  this,  all  would  be  well.  In  a  few  days  he  would 
be  off  to  sea.  And  even  if  he  did  speak,  all  would  be  well. 
It  could  not  be  otherwise,  for  she  did  not  love  him.  Of 
course,  it  would  be  a  painful  half  hour  for  him,  and  an 
embarrassing  half  hour  for  her,  because  it  would  be  her 
first  proposal.  She  thrilled  deliciously  at  the  thought. 
She  was  really  a  woman,  with  a  man  ripe  to  ask  for  her 
in  marriage.  It  was  a  lure  to  all  that  was  fundamental  in 
her  sex.  The  fabric  of  her  life,  of  all  that  constituted  her, 
quivered  and  grew  tremulous.  The  thought  fluttered  in 


176  MARTIN  EDEN 

her  mind  like  a  flame-attracted  moth.  She  went  so  far  as 
to  imagine  Martin  proposing,  herself  putting  the  words 
into  his  mouth;  and  she  rehearsed  her  refusal,  tempering 
it  with  kindness  and  exhorting  him  to  true  and  noble  man 
hood.  And  especially  he  must  stop  smoking  cigarettes. 
She  wou^d  make  a  point  of  that.  But  no,  she  must  not 
let  him  speak  at  all.  She  could  stop  him,  and  she  had 
told  her  mother  that  she  would.  All  flushed  and  burning, 
she  regretfully  dismissed  the  conjured  situation.  Her 
first  proposal  would  have  to  be  deferred  to  a  more  pro 
pitious  time  and  a  more  eligible  suitor. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

CAME  a  beautiful  fall  day,  warm  and  languid,  palpitant 
with  the  hush  of  the  changing  season,  a  California  Indian 
summer  day,  with  hazy  sun  and  wandering  wisps  of 
breeze  that  did  not  stir  the  slumber  of  the  air.  Filmy 
purple  mists,  that  were  not  vapors  but  fabrics  woven  of 
color,  hid  in  the  recesses  of  the  hills.  San  Francisco  lay 
like  a  blur  of  smoke  upon  her  heights.  The  intervening 
bay  was  a  dull  sheen  of  molten  metal,  whereon  sailing  craft 
lay  motionless  or  drifted  with  the  lazy  tide.  Far  Tamal- 
pais,  barely  seen  in  the  silver  haze,  bulked  hugely  by  the 
Golden  Gate,  the  latter  a  pale  gold  pathway  under  the 
westering  sun.  Beyond,  the  Pacific,  dim  and  vast,  was 
raising  on  its  sky-line  tumbled  cloud-masses  that  swept 
landward,  giving  warning  of  the  first  blustering  breath  of 
winter. 

The  erasure  of  summer  was  at  hand.  Yet  summer 
lingered,  fading  and  fainting  among  her  hills,  deepening 
the  purple  of  her  valleys,  spinning  a  shroud  of  haze  from 
waning  powers  and  sated  raptures,  dying  with  the  calm 
content  of  having  lived  and  lived  well.  And  among  the 
hills,  on  their  favorite  knoll,  Martin  and  Ruth  sat  side  by 
side,  their  heads  bent  over  the  same  pages,  he  reading 
aloud  from  the  love-sonnets  of  the  woman  who  had  loved 
Browning  as  it  is  given  to  few  men  to  be  loved. 

But  the  reading  languished.  The  spell  of  passing 
beauty  all  about  them  was  too  strong.  The  golden  year 
was  dying  as  it  had  lived,  a  beautiful  and  unrepentant 
voluptuary,  and  reminiscent  rapture  and  content  freighted 
heavily  the  air.  It  entered  into  them,  dreamy  and  lan 
guorous,  weakening  the  fibres  of  resolution,  suffusing  the 
face  of  morality,  or  of  judgment,  with  haze  and  purple 
mist.  Martin  felt  tender  and  melting,  and  from  time  to 
N  177 


178  MARTIN  EDEN 

time  warm  glows  passed  over  him.  His  head  was  very 
near  to  hers,  and  when  wandering  phantoms  of  breeze 
stirred  her  hair  so  that  it  touched  his  face,  the  printed 
pages  swam  before  his  eyes. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  know  a  word  of  what  you  are  read 
ing,"  she  said  once  when  he  had  lost  his  place. 

He  looked  at  her  with  burning  eyes,  and  was  on  the 
verge  of  becoming  awkward,  when  a  retort  came  to  his 
lips. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  know  either.  What  was  the  last 
sonnet  about  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  laughed  frankly.  "  I've  already 
forgotten.  Don't  let  us  read  any  more.  The  day  is  too 
beautiful." 

"  It  will  be  our  last  in  the  hills  for  some  time,"  he  an 
nounced  gravely.  "  There's  a  storm  gathering  out  there 
on  the  sea-rim." 

The  book  slipped  from  his  hands  to  the  ground,  and 
they  sat  idly  and  silently,  gazing  out  over  the  dreamy  bay 
with  eyes  that  dreamed  and  did  not  see.  Ruth  glanced 
sidewise  at  his  neck.  She  did  not  lean  toward  him.  She 
was  drawn  by  some  force  outside  of  herself  and  stronger 
than  gravitation,  strong  as  destiny.  It  was  only  an  inch 
to  lean,  and  it  was  accomplished  without  volition  on  her 
part.  Her  shoulder  touched  his  as  lightly  as  a  butterfly 
touches  a  flower,  and  just  as  lightly  was  the  counter-press 
ure.  She  felt  his  shoulder  press  hers,  and  a  tremor  run 
through  him.  Then  was  the  time  for  her  to  draw  back. 
But  she  had  become  an  automaton.  Her  actions  had 
passed  beyond  the  control  of  her  will —  she  never  thought  of 
control  or  will  in  the  delicious  madness  that  was  upon  her. 
His  arm  began  to  steal  behind  her  and  around  her.  She 
waited  its  slow  progress  in  a  torment  of  delight.  She 
waited,  she  knew  not  for  what,  panting,  with  dry,  burn 
ing  lips,  a  leaping  pulse,  and  a  fever  of  expectancy  in  all 
her  blood.  The  girdling  arm  lifted  higher  and  drew  her 
toward  him,  drew  her  slowly  and  caressingly.  She  could 
wait  no  longer.  With  a  tired  sigh,  and  with  an  impulsive 
movement  all  her  own,  unpremeditated,  spasmodic,  she 


MARTIN  EDEN  179 

rested  her  head  upon  his  breast.  His  head  bent  over 
swiftly,  and,  as  his  lips  approached,  hers  flew  to  meet  them. 

This  must  be  love,  she  thought,  in  the  one  rational  mo 
ment  that  was  vouchsafed  her.  If  it  was  not  love,  it  was 
too  shameful.  It  could  be  nothing  else  than  love.  She 
loved  the  man  whose  arms  were  around  her  and  whose 
lips  were  pressed  to  hers.  She  pressed  more  tightly  to 
him,  with  a  snuggling  movement  of  her  body.  And  a 
moment  later,  tearing  herself  half  out  of  his  embrace,  sud 
denly  and  exultantly  she  reached  up  and  placed  both 
hands  upon  Martin  Eden's  sunburnt  neck.  So  exquisite 
was  the  pang  of  love  and  desire  fulfilled  that  she  uttered 
a  low  moan,  relaxed  her  hands,  and  lay  half -swooning  in 
his  arms. 

Not  a  word  had  been  spoken,  and  not  a  word  was  spoken 
for  a  long  time.  Twice  he  bent  and  kissed  her,  and  each 
time  her  lips  met  his  shyly  and  her  body  made  its  happy, 
nestling  movement.  She  clung  to  him,  unable  to  release 
herself,  and  he  sat,  half  supporting  her  in  his  arms,  as  he 
gazed  with  unseeing  eyes  at  the  blur  of  the  great  city 
across  the  bay.  For  once  there  were  no  visions  in  his 
brain.  Only  colors  and  lights  and  glows  pulsed  there, 
warm  as  the  day  and  warm  as  his  love.  He  bent  over 
her.  She  was  speaking. 

"•  When  did  you  love  me?  "  she  whispered. 

"  From  the  first,  the  very  first,  the  first  moment  I  laid 
eyes  on  you.  I  was  mad  for  love  of  you  then,  and  in  all 
the  time  that  has  passed  since  then  I  have  only  grown  the 
5nadder.  I  am  maddest,  now,  dear.  I  am  almost  a  lunatic, 
my  head  is  so  turned  with  joy." 

"  I  am  glad  I  am  a  woman,  Martin  —  dear,"  she  said, 
after  a  long  sigh. 

He  crushed  her  in  his  arms  again  und  again,  and  then 
asked :  — 

"  And  you?     When  did  you  first  know?  " 

"  Oh,  I  knew  it  all  the  time,  almost  from  the  first." 

"  And  I  have  been  as  blind  as  a  bat  1  "  he  cried,  a  ring 
of  vexation  in  his  voice.  "  I  never  dreamed  it  until  just 
BOW,  when  I  —  when  I  kissed  you." 


180  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  I  didn't  mean  that."  She  drew  herself  partly  away 
and  looked  at  him.  "I  meant  I  knew  you  loved  me 
almost  from  the  first." 

"And  you?  "  he  demanded. 

"  It  came  to  me  suddenly."  She  was  speaking  very 
slowly,  her  eyes  warm  and  fluttery  and  melting,  a  soft 
flush  on  her  cheeks  that  did  not  go  away.  "  I  never  knew 
until  just  now  when  —  you  put  your  arms  around  me. 
And  I  never  expected  to  marry  you,  Martin,  not  until  just 
now.  How  did  you  make  me  love  you  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  he  laughed,  "unless  just  by  loving 
you,  for  I  loved  you  hard  enough  to  melt  the  heart  of  a 
stone,  much  less  the  heart  of  the  living,  breathing  woman 
you  are." 

"  This  is  so  different  from  what  I  thought  love  would 
be,"  she  announced  irrelevantly. 

"  What  did  you  think  it  would  be  like  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  think  it  would  be  like  this."  She  was  looking 
into  his  eyes  at  the  moment,  but  her  own  dropped  as  she 
continued,  "  You  see,  I  didn't  know  what  this  was  like." 

He  offered  to  draw  her  toward  him  again,  but  it  was  no 
more  than  a  tentative  muscular  movement  of  the  girdling 
arm,  for  he  feared  that  he  might  be  greedy.  Then  he 
felt  her  body  yielding,  and  once  again  she  was  close  in  his 
arms  and  lips  were  pressed  on  lips. 

"What  will  my  people  say?  "  she  queried,  with  sudden 
apprehension,  in  one  of  the  pauses. 

"  I  don't  know.  We  can  find  out  very  easily  any  time 
we  are  so  minded." 

"But  if  mamma  objects?  I  am  sure  I  am  afraid  to  tell 
her." 

"  Let  me  tell  her,"  he  volunteered  valiantly.  "  I  think 
your  mother  does  not  like  me,  but  I  can  win  her  around. 
A  fellow  who  can  win  you  can  win  anything.  And  if  we 
don't  —  " 

"Yes?" 

"  Why,  we'll  have  each  other.  But  there's  no  danger 
of  not  winning  your  mother  to  our  marriage.  She  loves 
you  too  well." 


MARTIN  EDEN  181 

"  I  should  not  like  to  break  her  heart,"  Ruth  said 
pensively. 

He  felt  like  assuring  her  that  mothers'  hearts  were  not 
so  easily  broken,  but  instead  he  said,  "And  love  is  the 
greatest  thing  in  the  world." 

"  Do  you  know,  Martin,  you  sometimes  frighten  me.  I 
am  frightened  now,  when  I  think  of  you  and  of  what  you 
have  been.  You  must  be  very,  very  good  to  me.  Remem- 
member,  after  all,  that  I  am  only  a  child.  I  never  loved 
before." 

"  Nor  I.  We  are  both  children  together.  And  we  are 
fortunate  above  most,  for  we  have  found  our  first  love  in 
each  other." 

"  But  that  is  impossible !  "  she  cried,  withdrawing  her 
self  from  his  arms  with  a  swift,  passionate  movement. 
"  Impossible  for  you.  You  have  been  a  sailor,  and  sail 
ers,  I  have  heard,  are  —  are  —  " 

Her  voice  faltered  and  died  away. 

"Are  addicted  to  having  a  wife  in  every  port?"  he 
suggested.  "  Is  that  what  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  in  a  low  voice. 

"  But  that  is  not  love."  He  spoke  authoritatively.  "  I 
have  been  in  many  ports,  but  I  never  knew  a  passing  touch 
of  love  until  I  saw  you  that  first  night.  Do  you  know, 
when  I  said  good  night  and  went  away,  I  was  almost 
arrested." 

"Arrested?" 

"  Yes.  The  policeman  thought  I  was  drunk ;  and  I 
was,  too  —  with  love  for  you." 

"  But  you  said  we  were  children,  and  I  said  it  was 
impossible,  for  you,  and  we  have  strayed  away  from  the 
point." 

"  I  said  that  I  never  loved  anybody  but  you,"  he  re 
plied.  "  You  are  my  first,  my  very  first." 

"  And  yet  you  have  been  a  sailor,"  she  objected. 

"  But  that  doesn't  prevent  me  from  loving  you  the 
first." 

"  And  there  have  been  women  —  other  women  —  oh!  " 

And  to  Martin  Eden's  supreme  surprise,  she  burst  into  a 


182  MARTIN  EDEN 

storm  of  tears  that  took  more  kisses  than  one  and  many 
caresses  to  drive  away.  And  all  the  while  there  was 
running  through  his  head  Kipling's  line :  "  And  the  Colo 
nel's  lady  and  Judy  G'Grrady  are  sisters  under  their  skins" 
It  was  true,  he  decided;  though  the  novels  he  had  read  had 
led  him  to  believe  otherwise.  His  idea,  for  which  the 
novels  were  responsible,  had  been  that  only  formal  pro 
posals  obtained  in  the  upper  classes.  It  was  all  right 
enough,  down  whence  he  had  come,  for  youths  and 
maidens  to  win  each  other  by  contact ;  but  for  the  exalted 
personages  up  above  on  the  heights  to  make  love  in  similar 
fashion  had  seemed  unthinkable.  Yet  the  novels  were 
wrong.  Here  was  a  proof  of  it.  The  same  pressures  and 
caresses,  unaccompanied  by  speech,  that  were  efficacious 
with  the  girls  of  the  working-class,  were  equally  effica 
cious  with  the  girls  above  the  working-class.  They  were 
all  of  the  same  flesh,  after  all,  sisters  under  their  skins; 
and  he  might  have  known  as  much  himself  had  he  remem 
bered  his  Spencer.  As  he  held  Ruth  in  his  arms  and 
soothed  her,  he  took  great  consolation  in  the  thought  that 
the  Colonel's  lady  and  Judy  O'Grady  were  pretty  much 
alike  under  their  skins.  It  brought  Ruth  closer  to  him, 
made  her  possible.  Her  dear  flesh  was  as  anybody's  flesh, 
as  his  flesh.  There  was  no  bar  to  their  marriage.  Class 
difference  was  the  only  difference,  and  class  was  extrinsic. 
It  could  be  shaken  off.  A  slave,  he  had  read,  had  risen  to 
the  Roman  purple.  That  being  so,  then  he  could  rise  to 
Ruth.  Under  her  purity,  and  saintliness,  and  culture, 
and  ethereal  beauty  of  soul,  she  was,  in  things  fundamen 
tally  human,  just  like  Lizzie  Connolly  and  all  Lizzie  Con 
nollys.  All  that  was  possible  of  them  was  possible  of  her. 
She  could  love,  and  hate,  maybe  have  hysterics  ;  and  she 
could  certainly  be  jealous,  as  she  was  jealous  now,  uttering 
her  last  sobs  in  his  arms. 

"  Besides,  I  am  older  than  you,"  she  remarked  suddenly, 
opening  her  eyes  and  looking  up  at  him,  "three  years 
older." 

"  Hush,  you  are  only  a  child,  and  I  am  forty  years  older 
than  you,  in  experience,"  was  his  answer. 


MARTIN  EDEN  183 

In  truth,  they  were  children  together,  so  far  as  love 
was  concerned,  and  they  were  as  naive  and  immature  in 
the  expression  of  their  love  as  a  pair  of  children,  and  this 
despite  the  fact  that  she  was  crammed  with  a  university 
education  and  that  his  head  was  full  of  scientific  philoso 
phy  and  the  hard  facts  of  life. 

They  sat  on  through  the  passing  glory  of  the  day,  talking 
as  lovers  are  prone  to  talk,  marvelling  at  the  wonder  of 
love  and  at  destiny  that  had  flung  them  so  strangely 
together,  and  dogmatically  believing  that  they  loved  to  a 
degree  never  attained  by  lovers  before.  And  they  re 
turned  insistently,  again  and  again,  to  a  rehearsal  of  their 
first  impressions  of  each  other  and  to  hopeless  attempts  to 
analyze  just  precisely  what  they  felt  for  each  other  and 
how  much  there  was  of  it. 

The  cloud-masses  on  the  western  horizon  received  the 
descending  sun,  and  the  circle  of  the  sky  turned  to  rose, 
while  the  zenith  glowed  with  the  same  warm  color.  The 
rosy  light  was  all  about  them,  flooding  over  them,  as  she 
sang,  "  Good-by,  Sweet  Day."  She  sang  softly,  leaning 
in  the  cradle  of  his  arm,  her  hands  in  his,  their  hearts  in 
each  other's  hands. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

MBS.  MORSE  did  not  require  a  mother's  intuition  to  read 
the  advertisement  in  Ruth's  face  when  she  returned  home. 
The  flush  that  would  not  leave  the  cheeks  told  the  simple 
story,  and  more  eloquently  did  the  eyes,  large  and  bright, 
reflecting  an  unmistakable  inward  glory. 

"  What  has  happened  ? "  Mrs.  Morse  asked,  having 
bided  her  time  till  Ruth  had  gone  to  bed. 

"  You  know  ?  "  Ruth  queried,  with  trembling  lips. 

For  reply,  her  mother's  arm  went  around  her,  and  a 
hand  was  softly  caressing  her  hair. 

"  He  did  not  speak,"  she  blurted  out.  "  I  did  not  in 
tend  that  it  should  happen,  and  I  would  never  have  let 
him  speak  —  only  he  didn't  speak." 

"But  if  he  did  not  speak,  then  nothing  could  have  hap 
pened,  could  it  ?  " 

"  But  it  did,  just  the  same." 

"  In  the  name  of  goodness,  child,  what  are  you  babbling 
about  ?  "  Mrs.  Morse  was  bewildered.  "  I  don't  think  I 
know  what  happened,  after  all.  What  did  happen  ?  " 

Ruth  looked  at  her  mother  in  surprise. 

"  I  thought  you  knew.  Why,  we're  engaged,  Martin 
and  I." 

Mrs.  Morse  laughed  with  incredulous  vexation. 

"  No,  he  didn't  speak,"  Ruth  explained.  "  He  just  loved 
me,  that  was  all.  I  was  as  surprised  as  you  are.  He 
didn't  say  a  word.  He  just  put  his  arm  around  me.  And 
—  and  I  was  not  myself.  And  he  kissed  me,  and  I  kissed 
him.  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  just  had  to.  And  then  I 
knew  I  loved  him." 

She  paused,  waiting  with  expectancy  the  benediction  of 
her  mother's  kiss,  but  Mrs.  Morse  was  coldly  silent. 

184 


MARTIN  EDEN  185 

"  It  is  a  dre'adfnl  accident,  I  know,"  Ruth  recommenced 
with  a  sinking  voice.  "  And  I  don't  know  how  you  will 
ever  forgive  me.  But  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  did  not  dream 
that  I  loved  him  until  that  moment.  And  you  must  tell 
father  for  me." 

"  Would  it  not  be  better  not  to  tell  your  father  ?  Let 
me  see  Martin  Eden,  and  talk  with  him,  and  explain. 
He  will  understand  and  release  you." 

"  No  !  no  !  "  Ruth  cried,  starting  up.  "  I  do  not  want 
to  be  released.  I  love  him,  and  love  is  very  sweet.  I 
am  going  to  marry  him  —  of  course,  if  you  will  let  me." 

"  We  have  other  plans  for  you,  Ruth,  dear,  your  father 
and  I  —  oh,  no,  no  ;  no  man  picked  out  for  you,  or  any 
thing  like  that.  Our  plans  go  no  farther  than  your 
marrying  some  man  in  your  own  station  in  life,  a  good 
and  honorable  gentleman,  whom  you  will  select  yourself, 
when  you  love  him." 

"  But  I  love  Martin  already,"  was  the  plaintive  protest. 

"  We  would  not  influence  your  choice  in  any  way ;  but 
you  are  our  daughter,  and  we  could  not  bear  to  see  you 
make  a  marriage  such  as  this.  He  has  nothing  but 
roughness  and  coarseness  to  offer  you  in  exchange  for  all 
that  is  refined  and  delicate  in  you.  He  is  no  match  for 
you  in  any  way.  He  could  not  support  you.  We  have 
no  foolish  ideas  about  wealth,  but  comfort  is  another 
matter,  and  our  daughter  should  at  least  marry  a  man 
who  can  give  her  that  —  and  not  a  penniless  adventurer, 
a  sailor,  a  cowboy,  a  smuggler,  and  Heaven  knows  what 
else,  who,  in  addition  to  everything,  is  hare-brained  and 
irresponsible." 

Ruth  was  silent.     Every  word  she  recognized  as  true. 

"  He  wastes  his  time  over  his  writing,  trying  to  accom 
plish  what  geniuses  and  rare  men  with  college  educations 
sometimes  accomplish.  A  man  thinking  of  marriage 
should  be  preparing  for  marriage.  But  not  he.  As  I 
have  said,  and  I  know  you  agree  with  me,  he  is  irrespon 
sible.  And  why  should  he  not  be  ?  It  is  the  way  of 
sailors.  He  has  never  learned  to  be  economical  or  tem 
perate.  The  spendthrift  years  have  marked  him.  It  is 


186  MARTIN  EDEN 

not  his  fault,  of  course,  but  that  does  not  alter  his  nature. 
And  have  you  thought  of  the  years  of  licentiousness 
he  inevitably  has  lived?  Have  you  thought  of  that, 
daughter?  You  know  what  marriage  means." 

Ruth  shuddered  and  clung  close  to  her  mother. 

"I  have  thought."  Ruth  waited  a  long  time  for  the 
thought  to  frame  itself.  "  And  it  is  terrible.  It  sickens 
me  to  think  of  it.  I  told  you  it  was  a  dreadful  accident, 
my  loving  him  ;  but  I  can't  help  myself.  Could  you 
help  loving  father  ?  Then  it  is  the  same  with  me. 
There  is  something  in  me,  in  him  —  I  never  knew  it 
was  there  until  to-day  —  but  it  is  there,  and  it  makes  me 
love  him.  I  never  thought  to  love  him,  but,  you  see,  I 
do,"  she  concluded,  a  certain  faint  triumph  in  her  voice. 

They  talked  long,  and  to  little  purpose,  in  conclusion 
agreeing  to  wait  an  indeterminate  time  without  doing 
anything. 

The  same  conclusion  was  reached,  a  little  later  that 
night,  between  Mrs.  Morse  and  her  husband,  after  she 
had  made  due  confession  of  the  miscarriage  of  her  plans. 

"  It  could  hardly  have  come  otherwise,"  was  Mr.  Morse's 
judgment.  "  This  sailor-fellow  has  been  the  only  man  she 
was  in  touch  with.  Sooner  or  later  she  was  going  to 
awaken  anyway ;  and  she  did  awaken,  and  lo  !  here  was 
this  sailor-fellow,  the  only  accessible  man  at  the  moment, 
and  of  course  she  promptly  loved  him,  or  thought  she 
did,  which  amounts  to  the  same  thing." 

Mrs.  Morse  took  it  upon  herself  to  work  slowly  and  in 
directly  upon  Ruth,  rather  than  to  combat  her.  There 
would  be  plenty  of  time  for  this,  for  Martin  was  not  in 
position  to  marry. 

"  Let  her  see  all  she  wants  of  him,"  was  Mr.  Morse's 
advice.  "The  more  she  knows  him,  the  less  she'll  love 
him,  I  wager.  And  give  her  plenty  of  contrast.  Make 
a  point  of  having  young  people  at  the  house.  Young 
women  and  young  men,  all  sorts  of  young  men,  clever 
men,  men  who  have  done  something  or  who  are  doing 
things,  men  of  her  own  class,  gentlemen.  She  can  gauge 
him  by  them.  They  will  show  him  up  for  what  he  is. 


MARTIN  EDEN  187 

And  after  all,  he  is  a  mere  boy  of  twenty-one.  Ruth  is 
no  more  than  a  child.  It  is  calf  love  with  the  pair  of 
them,  and  they  will  grow  out  of  it." 

So  the  matter  rested.  Within  the  family  it  was  ac 
cepted  that  Ruth  and  Martin  were  engaged,  but  no  an 
nouncement  was  made.  The  family  did  not  think  it 
would  ever  be  necessary.  Also,  it  was  tacitly  under 
stood  that  it  was  to  be  a  long  engagement.  They  did 
not  ask  Martin  to  go  to  work,  nor  to  cease  writing. 
They  did  not  intend  to  encourage  him  to  mend  himself. 
And  he  aided  and  abetted  them  in  their  unfriendly  de 
signs,  for  going  to  work  was  farthest  from  his  thoughts. 

"  I  wonder  if  you'll  like  what  I  have  done  !  "  he  said  to 
Ruth  several  days  later.  "I've  decided  that  boarding 
with  my  sister  is  too  expensive,  and  I  am  going  to  board 
myself.  I've  rented  a  little  room  out  in  North  Oakland, 
retired  neighborhood  and  all  the  rest,  you  know,  and  I've 
bought  an  oil-burner  on  which  to  cook." 

Ruth  was  overjoyed.  The  oil-burner  especially  pleased 
her. 

"  That  was  the  way  Mr.  Butler  began  his  start,"  she  said. 

Martin  frowned  inwardly  at  the  citation  of  that  worthy 
gentleman,  and  went  on:  "I  put  stamps  on  all  my  manu 
scripts  and  started  them  off  to  the  editors  again.  Then 
to-day  I  moved  in,  and  to-morrow  I  start  to  work." 

"A  position!"  she  cried,  betraying  the  gladness  of  her 
surprise  in  all  her  body,  nestling  closer  to  him,  pressing 
his  hand,  smiling.  "  And  you  never  told  me  I  What  is 
it?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  meant  that  I  was  going  to  work  at  my  writing." 
Her  face  fell,  and  he  went  on  hastily.  "Don't  misjudge 
me.  I  am  not  going  in  this  time  with  any  iridescent  ideas. 
It  is  to  be  a  cold,  prosaic,  matter-of-fact  business  proposi 
tion.  It  is  better  than  going  to  sea  again,  and  I  shall 
earn  more  money  than  any  position  in  Oakland  can  bring 
an  unskilled  man. 

"You  see,  this  vacation  I  have  taken  has  given  me  perspec 
tive.  I  haven't  been  working  the  life  out  of  my  body,  and  I 


188  MARTIN  EDEN 

haven't  been  writing,  at  least  not  for  publication.  All  I've 
done  has  been  to  love  you  and  to  think.  I've  read  some, 
too,  but  it  has  been  part  of  my  thinking,  and  I  have  read 
principally  magazines.  I  have  generalized  about  myself, 
and  the  world,  my  place  in  it,  and  my  chance  to  win  to  a 
place  that  will  be  fit  for  you.  Also,  I've  been  reading 
Spencer's  'Philosophy  of  Style,'  and  found  out  a  lot  of 
what  was  the  matter  with  me  —  or  my  writing,  rather; 
and  for  that  matter  with  most  of  the  writing  that  is  pub 
lished  every  month  in  the  magazines. 

"  But  the  upshot  of  it  all  —  of  my  thinking  and  reading 
and  loving  —  is  that  I  am  going  to  move  to  Grub  Street. 
I  shall  leave  masterpieces  alone  and  do  hack-work  —  jokes, 
paragraphs,  feature  articles,  humorous  verse,  and  society 
verse  —  all  the  rot  for  which  there  seems  so  much  demand. 
Then  there  are  the  newspaper  syndicates,  and  the  newspaper 
short-story  syndicates,  and  the  syndicates  for  the  Sunday 
supplements.  I  can  go  ahead  and  hammer  out  the  stuff  they 
want,  and  earn  the  equivalent  of  a  good  salary  by  it.  There 
are  free-lances,  you  know,  who  earn  as  much  as  four  or  five 
hundred  a  month.  I  don't  care  to  become  as  they;  but  I'll 
earn  a  good  living,  and  have  plenty  of  time  to  myself, 
which  I  wouldn't  have  in  any  position. 

"  Then,  I'll  have  my  spare  time  for  study  and  for  real 
work.  In  between  the  grind  I'll  try  my  hand  at  master 
pieces,  and  I'll  study  and  prepare  myself  for  the  writing  of 
masterpieces.  Why,  I  am  amazed  at  the  distance  I  have 
come  already.  When  I  first  tried  to  write,  I  had  nothing  to 
write  about  except  a  few  paltry  experiences  which  I  neither 
understood  nor  appreciated.  But  I  had  no  thoughts.  I 
really  didn't.  I  didn't  even  have  the  words  with  which  to 
think.  My  experiences  were  so  many  meaningless  pic 
tures.  But  as  I  began  to  add  to  my  knowledge,  and  to  my 
vocabulary,  I  saw  something  more  in  my  experiences  than 
mere  pictures.  I  retained  the  pictures  and  I  found  their 
interpretation.  That  was  when  I  began  to  do  good  work, 
when  I  wrote  '  Adventure,'  *  Joy,'  '  The  Pot,'  '  The  Wine 
of  Life,'  '  The  Jostling  Street,'  the  *  Love-cycle,'  and  the 
'  Sea  Lyrics.'  I  shall  write  more  like  them,  and  better ; 


MARTIN  EDEN  189 

but  I  shall  do  it  in  my  spare  time.  My  feet  are  on  the 
solid  earth,  now.  Hack-work  and  income  first,  master 
pieces  afterward.  Just  to  show  you,  I  wrote  half  a  dozen 
jokes  last  night  for  the  comic  weeklies;  and  just  as  I  was 
going  to  bed,  the  thought  struck  me  to  try  my  hand  at  a 
triolet  —  a  humorous  one;  and  inside  an  hour  I  had 
written  four.  They  ought  to  be  worth  a  dollar  apiece. 
Four  dollars  right  there  for  a  few  afterthoughts  on  the 
way  to  bed. 

"  Of  course  it's  all  valueless,  just  so  much  dull  and  sor 
did  plodding;  but  it  is  no  more  dull  and  sordid  than 
keeping  books  at  sixty  dollars  a  month,  adding  up  endless 
columns  of  meaningless  figures  until  one  dies.  And 
furthermore,  the  hack-work  keeps  me  in  touch  with  things 
literary  and  gives  me  time  to  try  bigger  things." 

"  But  what  good  are  these  bigger  things,  these  master 
pieces?"  Ruth  demanded.  "You  can't  sell  them." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  can,"  he  began;  but  she  interrupted. 

"  All  those  you  named,  and  which  you  say  yourself  are 
good  —  you  have  not  sold  any  of  them.  We  can't  get 
married  on  masterpieces  that  won't  sell." 

"  Then  we'll  get  married  on  triolets  that  will  sell,"  he 
asserted  stoutly,  putting  his  arm  around  her  and  drawing 
a  very  unresponsive  sweetheart  toward  him. 

"  Listen  to  this,"  he  went  on  in  attempted  gayety.  "  It's 
not  art,  but  it's  a  dollar. 

"He  came  in 

When  I  was  out, 
To  borrow  some  tin 
Was  why  he  came  in, 
And  he  went  without; 
So  I  was  in 
And  he  was  out." 

The  merry  lilt  with  which  he  had  invested  the  jingle 
was  at  variance  with  the  dejection  that  came  into  his  face 
as  he  finished.  He  had  drawn  no  smile  from  Ruth.  She 
was  looking  at  him  in  an  earnest  and  troubled  way. 

"It  may  be  a  dollar,"  she  said,  "  but  it'~is  a  jester's  dol 
lar,  the  fee  of  a  clown.  Don't  you  see,  Martin,  the  whole 


190  MARTIN  EDEN 

thing  is  lowering.  I  want  the  man  I  love  and  honor  to 
be  something  finer  and  higher  than  a  perpetrator  of  jokes 
and  doggerel." 

"You  want  Mm  to  be  like  —  say  Mr.  Butler  ?"  he  sug 
gested. 

"I  know  you  don't  like  Mr.  Butler,"  she  began. 

"Mr.  Butler's  all  right,"  he  interrupted.  "It's  only  his 
indigestion  I  find  fault  with.  But  to  save  me  I  can't  see 
any  difference  between  writing  jokes  or  comic  verse  and 
running  a  type- writer,  taking  dictation,  or  keeping  sets  of 
books.  Tt  is  all  a  means  to  an  end.  Your  theory  is  for 
me  to  begin  with  keeping  books  in  order  to  become  a  suc 
cessful  lawyer  or  man  of  business.  Mine  is  to  begin  with 
hack-work  and  develop  into  an  able  author." 

"  There  is  a  difference,"  vshe  insisted. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Why,  your  good  work,  what  you  yourself  call  good, 
you  can't  sell.  You  have  tried, — you  know  that,  —  but 
the  editors  won't  buy  it." 

"  Give  me  time,  dear,"  he  pleaded.  "  The  hack-work  is 
only  makeshift,  and  I  don't  take  it  seriously.  Give  me 
two  years.  I  shall  succeed  in  that  time,  and  the  editors 
will  be  glad  to  buy  my  good  work.  I  know  what  I  am, 
saying;  I  have  faith  in  myself.  I  know  what  I  have  in  me; 
I  know  what  literature  is,  now;  I  know  the  average  rot  that 
is  poured  out  by  a  lot  of  little  men;  and  I  know  that  at 
the  end  of  two  years  I  shall  be  on  the  highroad  to  success. 
As  for  business,  I  shall  never  succeed  at  it.  I  am  not  in 
sympathy  with  it.  It  strikes  me  as  dull,  and  stupid,  and 
mercenary,  and  tricky.  Anyway  I  am  not  adapted  for  it. 
I'd  never  get  beyond  a  clerkship,  and  how  could  you  and  I 
be  happy  on  the  paltry  earnings  of  a  clerk?  I  want  the 
best  of  everything  in  the  world  for  you,  and  the  only  time 
when  I  won't  want  it  will  be  when  there  is  something  bet 
ter.  And  I'm  going  to  get  it,  going  to  get  all  of  it.  The 
income  of  a  successful  author  makes  Mr.  Butler  look  cheap. 
A  '  best-seller '  will  earn  any  Hiere  between  fifty  and  a  hun 
dred  thousand  dollars  —  sometimes  more  and  sometimes 
less;  but,  as  a  rule,  pretty  close  to  those  figures." 


MARTIN  EDEN  191 

She  remained  silent;  her  disappointment  was  apparent. 

"Well?  "he  asked. 

"  I  had  hoped  and  planned  otherwise.  I  had  thought, 
and  I  still  think,  that  the  best  thing  for  you  would  be  to 
study  shorthand  —  you  already  know  type- writing  —  and 
go  into  father's  office.  You  have  a  good  mind,  and  I  am 
confident  you  would  succeed  as  a  lawyer." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THAT  Ruth  had  little  faith  in  his  power  as  a  writer, 
did  not  alter  her  nor  diminish  her  in  Martin's  eyes.  In 
the  breathing  spell  of  the  vacation  he  had  taken,  he  had 
spent  many  hours  in  self-analysis,  and  thereby  learned 
much  of  himself.  He  had  discovered  that  he  loved  beauty 
more  than  fame,  and  that  what  desire  he  had  for  fame  was 
largely  for  Ruth's  sake.  It  was  for  this  reason  that  his 
desire  for  fame  was  strong.  He  wanted  to  be  great  in  the 
world's  eyes ;  "  to  make  good,"  as  he  expressed  it,  in  order 
that  the  woman  he  loved  should  be  proud  of  him  and 
deem  him  worthy. 

As  for  himself,  he  loved  beauty  passionately,  and  the 
joy  of  serving  her  was  to  him  sufficient  wage.  And 
more  than  beauty  he  loved  Ruth.  He  considered  love  the 
finest  thing  in  the  world.  It  was  love  that  had  worked 
the  revolution  in  him,  changing  him  from  an  uncouth  sailor 
to  a  student  and  an  artist ;  therefore,  to  him,  the  finest 
and  greatest  of  the  three,  greater  than  learning  and  ar 
tistry,  was  love.  Already  he  had  discovered  that  his  brain 
went  beyond  Ruth's,  just  as  it  went  beyond  the  brains  of 
her  brothers,  or  the  brain  of  her  father.  In  spite  of  every 
advantage  of  university  training,  and  in  the  face  of  her 
bachelorship  of  arts,  his  power  of  intellect  overshadowed 
hers,  and  his  year  or  so  of  self-study  and  equipment  gave 
him  a  mastery  of  the  affairs  of  the  world  and  art  and  life 
that  she  could  never  hope  to  possess. 

All  this  he  realized,  but  it  did  not  affect  his  love  for 
her,  nor  her  love  for  him.  Love  was  too  fine  and  noble, 
and  he  was  too  loyal  a  lover  for  him  to  besmirch  love 
with  criticism.  What  did  love  have  to  do  with  Ruth's 
divergent  views  on  art,  right  conduct,  the  French  Revolu 
tion,  or  equal  suffrage  ?  They  were  mental  processes,  but 
love  was  beyond  reason;  it  was  superrational.  He  could 

192 


MARTIN  EDEN  193 

not  belittle  love.  He  worshipped  it.  Love  lay  on  the 
mountain-tops  beyond  the  valley-land  of  reason.  It  was 
a  sublimated  condition  of  existence,  the  topmost  peak  of 
living,  and  it  came  rarely.  Thanks  to  the  school  of  scien 
tific  philosophers  he  favored,  he  knew  the  biological 
significance  of  love;  but  by  a  refined  process  of  the  same 
scientific  reasoning  he  reached  the  conclusion  that  the 
human  organism  achieved  its  highest  purpose  in  love, 
that  love  must  not  be  questioned,  but  must  be  accepted  as 
the  highest  guerdon  of  life.  Thus,  he  considered  the  lover 
blessed  over  all  creatures,  and  it  was  a  delight  to  him  to 
think  of  "  God's  own  mad  lover,"  rising  above  the  things 
of  earth,  above  wealth  and  judgment,  public  opinion  and 
applause,  rising  above  life  itself  and  "  dying  on  a  kiss." 

Much  of  this  Martin  had  already  reasoned  out,  and 
some  of  it  he  reasoned  out  later.  In  the  meantime  he 
worked,  taking  no  recreation  except  when  he  went  to  see 
Ruth,  and  living  like  a  Spartan.  He  paid  two  dollars 
and  a  half  a  month  rent  for  the  small  room  he  got  from 
his  Portuguese  landlady,  Maria  Silva,  a  virago  and  a 
widow,  hard  working  and  harsher  tempered,  rearing  her 
large  brood  of  children  somehow,  and  drowning  her  sorrow 
and  fatigue  at  irregular  intervals  in  a  gallon  of  the  thin, 
sour  wine  that  she  bought  from  the  corner  grocery  and 
saloon  for  fifteen  cents.  From  detesting  her  and  her  foul 
tongue  at  first,  Martin  grew  to  admire  her  as  he  observed 
the  brave  fight  she  made.  There  were  but  four  rooms  in 
the  little  house  —  three,  when  Martin's  was  subtracted. 
One  of  these,  the  parlor,  gay  with  an  ingrain  carpet  and 
dolorous  with  a  funeral  card  and  a  death-picture  of  one  of 
her  numerous  departed  babes,  was  kept  strictly  for  com 
pany.  The  blinds  were  always  down,  and  her  barefooted 
tribe  was  never  permitted  to  enter  the  sacred  precinct 
save  on  state  occasions.  She  cooked,  and  all  ate,  in  the 
kitchen,  where  she  likewise  washed,  starched,  and  ironed 
clothes  on  all  days  of  the  week  except  Sunday  ;  for  her 
income  came  largely  from  taking  in  washing  from  her 
more  prosperous  neighbors.  Remained  the  bedroom, 
small  as  the  one  occupied  by  Martin,  into  which  she  and 


194  MARTIN  EDEN 

her  seven  little  ones  crowded  and  slept.  It  was  an  ever 
lasting  miracle  to  Martin  how  it  was  accomplished,  and 
from  her  side  of  the  thin  partition  he  heard  nightly  every 
detail  of  the  going  to  bed,  the  squalls  and  squabbles,  the 
soft  chattering,  and  the  sleepy,  t watering  noises  as  of 
birds.  Another  source  of  income  to  Maria  were  her  cows, 
two  of  them,  which  she  milked  night  and  morning  and 
which  gained  a  surreptitious  livelihood  from  vacant  lots 
and  the  grass  that  grew  on  either  side  the  public  side 
walks,  attended  always  by  one  or  more  of  her  ragged 
boys,  whose  watchful  guardianship  consisted  chiefly  in 
keeping  their  eyes  out  for  the  poundmen. 

In  his  own  small  room  Martin  lived,  slept,  studied,  wrote, 
and  kept  house.  Before  the  one  window,  looking  out  on 
the  tiny  front  porch,  was  the  kitchen  table  that  served  as 
desk,  library,  and  type-writing  stand.  The  bed,  against 
the  rear  wall,  occupied  two-thirds  of  the  total  space  of  the 
room.  The  table  was  flanked  on  one  side  by  a  gaudy 
bureau,  manufactured  for  profit  and  not  for  service,  the 
thin  veneer  of  which  was  shed  day  by  day.  This  bureau 
stood  in  the  corner,  and  in  the  opposite  corner,  on  the 
table's  other  flank,  was  the  kitchen — the  oil-stove  on  a 
dry-goods  box,  inside  of  which  were  dishes  and  cooking 
utensils,  a  shelf  on  the  wall  for  provisions,  and  a  bucket  of 
water  on  the  floor.  Martin  had  to  carry  his  water  from 
the  kitchen  sink,  there  being  no  tap  in  his  room.  On 
days  when  there  was  much  steam  to  his  cooking,  the 
harvest  of  veneer  from  the  bureau  was  unusually  gener 
ous.  Over  the  bed,  hoisted  by  a  tackle  to  the  ceiling, 
was  his  bicycle.  At  first  he  had  tried  to  keep  it  in  the 
basement;  but  the  tribe  of  Silva,  loosening  the  bearings 
and  puncturing  the  tires,  had  driven  him  out.  Next  he 
attempted  the  tiny  front  porch,  until  a  howling  south 
easter  drenched  the  wheel  a  night-long.  Then  he  had 
retreated  with  it  to  his  room  and  slung  it  aloft. 

A  small  closet  contained  his  clothes  and  the  books  he 
had  accumulated  and  for  which  there  was  no  room  on  the 
table  or  under  the  table.  Hand  in  hand  with  reading,  he 
had  developed  the  habit  of  making  notes,  and  so  copiously 


MARTIN  EDEN  195 

did  he  make  them  that  there  would  have  been  no  existence 
for  him  in  the  confined  quarters  had  he  not  rigged  several 
clothes-lines  across  the  room  on  which  the  notes  were  hung. 
Even  so,  he  was  crowded  until  navigating  the  room  was  a 
difficult  task.  He  could  not  open  the  door  without  first 
closing  the  closet  door,  and  vice  versa.  It  was  impossible 
for  him  anywhere  to  traverse  the  room  in  a  straight  line. 
To  go  from  the  door  to  the  head  of  the  bed  was  a  zigzag 
course  that  he  was  never  quite  able  to  accomplish  in  the 
dark  without  collisions.  Having  settled  the  difficulty  of 
the  conflicting  doors,  he  had  to  steer  sharply  to  the  right 
to  avoid  the  kitchen.  Next,  he  sheered  to  the  left,  to  es 
cape  the  foot  of  the  bed;  but  this  sheer,  if  too  generous, 
brought  him  against  the  corner  of  the  table.  With  a  sud 
den  twitch  and  lurch,  he  terminated  vhe  sheer  and  bore  off 
to  the  right  along  a  sort  of  canal,  one  bank  of  which  was 
the  bed,  the  other  the  table.  When  the  one  chair  in  the 
room  was  at  its  usual  place  before  the  table,  the  canal  was 
unnavigable.  When  the  chair  was  not  in  use,  it  reposed  on 
top  of  the  bed,  though  sometimes  he  sat  on  the  chair  when 
cooking,  reading  a  book  while  the  water  boiled,  and  even 
becoming  skilful  enough  to  manage  a  paragraph  or  two 
while  steak  was  frying.  Also,  so  small  was  the  little 
corner  that  constituted  the  kitchen,  he  was  able,  sitting 
down,  to  reach  anything  he  needed.  In  fact,  it  was  ex 
pedient  to  cook  sitting  down  ;  standing  up,  he  was  too 
often  in  his  own  way. 

In  conjunction  with  a  perfect  stomach  that  could  digest 
anything,  he  possessed  knowledge  of  the  various  foods  that 
were  at  the  same  time  nutritious  and  cheap.  Pea-soup  was 
a  common  article  in  his  diet,  as  well  as  potatoes  and  beans, 
the  latter  large  and  brown  and  cooked  in  Mexican  style. 
Rice,  cooked  as  American  housewives  never  cook  it  and 
can  never  learn  to  cook  it,  appeared  on  Martin's  table  at 
least  once  a  day.  Dried  fruits  were  less  expensive  than 
fresh,  and  he  had  usually  a  pot  of  them,  cooked  and  ready 
at  hand,  for  they  took  the  place  of  butter  on  his  bread. 
Occasionally  he  graced  his  table  with  a  piece  of  round- 
steak,  or.  with  a  soup-bone.  Coffee,  without  cream  or 


196  MARTIN  EDEN 

milk,  he  had  twice  a  day,  in  the  evening  substituting  tea  ; 
but  both  coffee  and  tea  were  excellently  cooked. 

There  was  need  for  him  to  be  economical.  His  vacation 
had  consumed  nearly  all  he  had  earned  in  the  laundry,  and 
he  was  so  far  from  his  market  that  weeks  must  elapse  be 
fore  he  could  hope  for  the  first  returns  from  his  hack-work. 
Except  at  such  times  as  he  saw  Ruth,  or  dropped  in  to  see 
his  sister  Gertude,  he  lived  a  recluse,  in  each  day  accom 
plishing  at  least  three  days'  labor  of  ordinary  men.  He 
slept  a  scant  five  hours,  and  only  one  with  a  constitution 
of  iron  could  have  held  himself  down,  as  Martin  did,  day 
after  day,  to  nineteen  consecutive  hours  of  toil.  He  never 
lost  a  moment.  On  the  looking-glass  were  lists  of  defini 
tions  and  pronunciations  ;  when  shaving,  or  dressing,  or 
combing  his  hair,  he  conned  these  lists  over.  Similar  lists 
were  on  the  wall  over  the  oil-stove,  and  they  were  simi 
larly  conned  while  he  was  engaged  in  cooking  or  in  wash 
ing  the  dishes.  New  lists  continually  displaced  the  old 
ones.  Every  strange  or  partly  familiar  word  encountered 
in  his  reading  was  immediately  jotted  down,  and  later, 
when  a  sufficient  number  had  been  accumulated,  were 
typed  and  pinned  to  the  wall  or  looking-glass.  He  even 
carried  them  in  his  pockets,  and  reviewed  them  at  odd 
moments  on  the  street,  or  while  waiting  in  butcher  shop 
or  grocery  to  be  served. 

He  went  farther  in  the  matter.  Reading  the  works  of 
men  who  had  arrived,  he  noted  every  result  achieved  by 
them,  and  worked  out  the  tricks  by  which  they  had  been 
achieved  —  the  tricks  of  narrative,  of  exposition,  of  style, 
the  points  of  view,  the  contrasts,  the  epigrams  ;  and  of  all 
these  he  made  lists  for  study.  He  did  not  ape.  He 
sought  principles.  He  drew  up  lists  of  effective  and  fetch 
ing  mannerisms,  till  out  of  many  such,  culled  from  many 
writers,  he  was  able  to  induce  the  general  principle  of 
mannerism,  and,  thus  equipped,  to  cast  about  for  new  and 
original  ones  of  his  own,  and  to  weigh  and  measure  and 
appraise  them  properly.  In  similar  manner  he  collected 
lists  of  strong  phrases,  the  phrases  of  living  language, 
phrases  that  bit  like  acid  and  scorched  like  flame,  or  that 


MARTIN  EDEN  197 

glowed  and  were  mellow  and  luscious  in  the  midst  of  the 
arid  desert  of  common  speech.  He  sought  always  for  the 
principle  that  lay  behind  and  beneath.  He  wanted  to 
know  how  the  thing  was  done;  after  that  he  could  do  it 
for  himself.  He  was  not  content  with  the  fair  face  of 
beauty.  He  dissected  beauty  in  his  crowded  little  bed 
room  laboratory,  where  cooking  smells  alternated  with  the 
outer  bedlam  of  the  Silva  tribe  ;  and,  having  dissected 
and  learned  the  anatomy  of  beauty,  he  was  nearer  being 
able  to  create  beauty  itself. 

He  was  so  made  that  he  could  work  only  with  under 
standing.  He  could  not  work  blindly,  in  the  dark,  igno 
rant  of  what  he  was  producing  and  trusting  to  chance  and 
the  star  of  his  genius  that  the  effect  produced  should  be 
right  and  fine.  He  had  no  patience  with  chance  effects. 
He  wanted  to  know  why  and  how.  His  was  deliberate 
creative  genius,  and,  before  he  began  a  story  or  poem,  the 
thing  itself  was  already  alive  in  his  brain,  with  the  end  in 
sight  and  the  means  of  realizing  that  end  in  his  conscious 
possession.  Otherwise  the  effort  was  doomed  to  failure. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  appreciated  the  chance  effects  in 
words  and  phrases  that  came  lightly  and  easily  into  his 
brain,  and  that  later  stood  all  tests  of  beauty  and  power 
and  developed  tremendous  and  incommunicable  connota 
tions.  Before  such  he  bowed  down  and  marvelled,  know 
ing  that  they  were  beyond  the  deliberate  creation  of  any 
man.  And  no  matter  how  much  he  dissected  beauty  in 
search  of  the  principles  that  underlie  beauty  and  make 
beauty  possible,  he  was  aware,  always,  of  the  innermost 
mystery  of  beauty  to  which  he  did  not  penetrate  and  to 
which  no  man  had  ever  penetrated.  He  knew  full  well, 
from  his  Spencer,  that  man  can  never  attain  ultimate 
knowledge  of  anything,  and  that  the  mystery  of  beauty 
was  no  less  than  that  of  life  —  nay,  more  — that  the  fibres 
of  beauty  and  life  were  intertwisted,  and  that  he  himself 
was  but  a  bit  of  the  same  nonunderstandable  fabric,  twisted 
of  sunshine  and  star-dust  and  wonder. 

In  fact,  it  was  when  filled  with  these  thoughts  that  he 
wrote  his  essay  entitled  "  Star-dust,"  in  which  he  had  his 


198  MARTIN  EDEN 

fling,  not  at  the  principles  of  criticism,  but  at  the  princi 
pal  critics.  It  was  brilliant,  deep,  philosophical,  and 
deliciously  touched  with  laughter.  Also  it  was  promptly 
rejected  by  the  magazines  as  often  as  it  was  submitted. 
But  having  cleared  his  mind  of  it,  he  went  serenely  on  his 
way.  It  was  a  habit  he  developed,  of  incubating  and  ma 
turing  his  thought  upon  a  subject,  and  of  then  rushing 
into  the  type- writer  with  it.  That  it  did  not  see  print  was 
a  matter  of  small  moment  with  him.  The  writing  of  it 
was  the  culminating  act  of  a  long  mental  process,  the 
drawing  together  of  scattered  threads  of  thought  and  the 
final  generalizing  upon  all  the  data  with  which  his  mind 
was  burdened.  To  write  such  an  article  was  the  conscious 
effort  by  which  he  freed  his  mind  and  made  it  ready  for 
fresh  material  and  problems.  It  was  in  a  way  akin  to  that 
common  habit  of  men  and  women  troubled  by  real  or  fan 
cied  grievances,  who  periodically  and  volubly  break  their 
long-suffering  silence  and  "  have  their  say  "  till  the  last 
word  is  said. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  weeks  passed.  Martin  ran  out  of  money,  and  pub 
lishers'  checks  were  far  away  as  ever.  All  his  important 
manuscripts  had  come  back  and  been  started  out  again, 
and  his  hack-work  fared  no  better.  His  little  kitchen  was 
no  longer  graced  with  a  variety  of  foods.  Caught  in  the 
pinch  with  a  part  sack  of  rice  and  a  few  pounds  of  dried 
apricots,  rice  and  apricots  was  his  menu  three  times  a  day 
for  five  days  hand-running.  Then  he  started  to  realize  on 
his  credit.  The  Portuguese  grocer,  to  whom  he  had  hith 
erto  paid  cash,  called  a  halt  when  Martin's  bill  reached  the 
magnificent  total  of  three  dollars  and  eighty-five  cents. 

"  For  you  see,"  said  the  grocer,  "  you  no  catcha  da  work, 
I  losa  da  mon'." 

And  Martin  could  reply  nothing.  There  was  no  way 
of  explaining.  It  was  not  true  business  principle  to  allow 
credit  to  a  strong-bodied  young  fellow  of  the  working- 
class  who  was  too  lazy  to  work. 

"  You  catcha  da  job,  I  let  you  have  mora  da  grub,"  the 
grocer  assured  Martin.  "No  job,  no  grub.  Thata  da 
business."  And  then,  to  show  that  it  was  purely  business 
foresight  and  not  prejudice,  "  Hava  da  drink  on  da  house 
—  good  friends  justa  da  same." 

So  Martin  drank,  in  his  easy  way,  to  show  that  he  was 
good  friends  with  the  house,  and  then  went  supperless  to 
bed. 

The  fruit  store,  where  Martin  had  bought  his  vegetables, 
was  run  by  an  American  whose  business  principles  were  so 
weak  that  he  let  Martin  run  a  bill  of  five  dollars  before 
stopping  his  credit.  The  baker  stopped  at  two  dollars, 
and  the  butcher  at  four  dollars.  Martin  added  his  debts 
and  found  that  he  was  possessed  of  a  total  credit  in  all  the 
world  of  fourteen  dollars  and  eighty-five  cents.  He  was 

199 


200  MARTIN  EDEN 

up  with  his  type- writer  rent,  but  he  estimated  that  he  could 
get  two  months'  credit  on  that,  which  would  be  eight 
dollars.  When  that  occurred,  he  would  have  exhausted 
all  possible  credit. 

The  last  purchase  from  the  fruit  store  had  been  a  sack 
of  potatoes,  and  for  a  week  he  had  potatoes,  and  nothing 
but  potatoes,  three  times  a  day.  An  occasional  dinner  at 
Ruth's  helped  to  keep  strength  in  his  body,  though  he 
found  it  tantalizing  enough  to  refuse  further  helping  when 
his  appetite  was  raging  at  sight  of  so  much  food  spread 
before  it.  Now  and  again,  though  afflicted  with  secret 
shame,  he  dropped  in  at  his  sister's  at  meal-time  and  ate 
as  much  as  he  dared  —  more  than  he  dared  at  the  Morse 
table. 

Day  by  day  he  worked  on,  and  day  by  day  the  postman 
delivered  to  him  rejected  manuscripts.  He  had  no  money 
for  stamps,  so  the  manuscripts  accumulated  in  a  heap  under 
the  table.  Came  a  day  when  for  forty  hours  he  had  not 
tasted  food.  He  could  not  hope  for  a  meal  at  Ruth's,  for 
she  was  away  to  San  Rafael  on  a  two  weeks'  visit ;  and 
for  very  shame's  sake  he  could  not  go  to  his  sister's.  To 
cap  misfortune,  the  postman,  in  his  afternoon  round, 
brought  him  five  returned  manuscripts.  Then  it  was  that 
Martin  wore  his  overcoat  down  into  Oakland,  and  came 
back  without  it,  but  with  five  dollars  tinkling  in  his  pocket. 
He  paid  a  dollar  each  on  account  to  the  four  tradesmen, 
and  in  his  kitchen  fried  steak  and  onions,  made  coffee,  and 
stewed  a  large  pot  of  prunes.  And  having  dined,  he  sat 
down  at  his  table-desk  and  completed  before  midnight  an 
essay  which  he  entitled  "The  Dignity  of  Usury."  Having 
typed  it  out,  he  flung  it  under  the  table,  for  there  had  been 
nothing  left  from  the  five  dollars  with  which  to  buy 
stamps. 

Later  on  he  pawned  his  watch,  and  still  later  his  wheel, 
reducing  the  amount  available  for  food  by  putting  stamps 
on  all  his  manuscripts  and  sending  them  out.  He  was 
disappointed  with  his  hack-work.  Nobody  cared  to  buy. 
He  compared  it  with  what  he  found  in  the  newspapers, 
weeklies,  and  cheap  magazines,  and  decided  that  his  was 


MARTIN  EDEN  201 

Better,  far  better,  than  the  average ;  yet  it  would  not  sell. 
Then  he  discovered  that  most  of  the  newspapers  printed 
a  great  deal  of  what  was  called  "  plate  "  stuff,  and  he  got 
the  address  of  the  association  that  furnished  it.  His  own 
work  that  he  sent  in  was  returned,  along  with  a  stereotyped 
slip  informing  him  that  the  staff  supplied  all  the  copy 
that  was  needed. 

In  one  of  the  great  juvenile  periodicals  he  noted  whole 
columns  of  incident  and  anecdote.  Here  was  a  chance. 
His  paragraphs  were  returned,  and  though  he  tried  re 
peatedly  he  never  succeeded  in  placing  one.  Later  on, 
when  it  no  longer  mattered,  he  learned  that  the  associate 
editors  and  sub-editors  augmented  their  salaries  by  supplying 
those  paragraphs  themselves.  The  comic  weeklies  returned 
his  jokes  and  humorous  verse,  and  the  light  society  verse 
he  wrote  for  the  large  magazines  found  no  abiding-place. 
Then  there  was  the  newspaper  storiette.  He  knew  that 
he  could  write  better  ones  than  were  published.  Manag 
ing  to  obtain  the  addresses  of  two  newspaper  syndicates, 
he  deluged  them  with  storiettes.  When  he  had  written 
twenty  and  failed  to  place  one  of  them,  he  ceased.  And 
yet,  from  day  to  day,  he  read  storiettes  in  the  dailies  and 
weeklies,  scores  and  scores  of  storiettes,  not  one  of  which 
would  compare  with  his.  In  his  despondency,  he  con 
cluded  that  he  had  no  judgment  whatever,  that  he  was 
hypnotized  by  what  he  wrote,  and  that  he  was  a  self-deluded 
pretender. 

The  inhuman  editorial  machine  ran  smoothly  as  ever. 
He  folded  the  stamps  in  with  his  manuscript,  dropped  it 
into  the  letter-box,  and  from  three  weeks  to  a  month  after 
ward  the  postman  came  up  the  steps  and  handed  him  the 
manuscript.  Surely  there  were  no  live,  warm  editors  at 
the  other  end.  It  was  all  wheels  and  cogs  and  oil-cups — 
a  clever  mechanism  operated  by  automatons.  He  reached 
stages  of  despair  wherein  he  doubted  if  editors  existed  at 
all.  He  had  never  received  a  sign  of  the  existence  of  one, 
and  from  absence  of  judgment  in  rejecting  all  he  wrote 
it  seemed  plausible  that  editors  were  myths,  manufactured 
and  maintained  by  office  boys,  typesetters,  and  pressmen. 


202  MARTIN  EDEN 

The  hours  he  spent  with  Ruth  were  the  only  happy  ones 
he  had,  and  they  were  not  all  happy.  He  was  afflicted 
always  with  a  gnawing  restlessness,  more  tantalizing 
than  in  the  old  days  before  he  possessed  her  love ;  for 
now  that  he  did  possess  her  love,  the  possession  of  her 
was  far  away  as  ever.  He  had  asked  for  two  years; 
time  was  flying,  and  he  was  achieving  nothing.  Again, 
he  was  always  conscious  of  the  fact  that  she  did  not 
approve  what  he  was  doing.  She  did  not  say  so  directly. 
Yet  indirectly  she  let  him  understand  it  as  clearly  and 
definitely  as  she  could  have  spoken  it.  It  was  not  resent 
ment  with  her,  but  disapproval ;  though  less  sweet-natured 
women  might  have  resented  where  she  was  no  more  than 
disappointed.  Her  disappointment  lay  in  that  this  man 
she  had  taken  to  mould,  refused  to  be  moulded.  To  a 
certain  extent  she  had  found  his  clay  plastic,  then  it  had 
developed  stubbornness,  declining  to  be  shaped  in  the  image 
of  her  father  or  of  Mr«  Butler. 

What  was  great  and  strong  in  him,  she  missed,  or,  worse 
yet,  misunderstood.  This  man,  whose  clay  was  so  plastic 
that  he  could  live  ill  any  number  of  pigeonholes  of  human 
existence,  she  thought  wilful  and  most  obstinate  because 
she  could  not  shape  him  to  live  in  her  pigeonhole,  which 
was  the  only  one  she  knew.  She  could  not  follow  the 
flights  of  his  mind,  and  when  his  brain  got  beyond  her,  she 
deemed  him  erratic.  Nobody  else's  brain  ever  got  beyond 
her.  She  could  always  follow  her  father  and  mother,  her 
brothers  and  Olney ;  wherefore,  when  she  could  not  follow 
Martin,  she  believed  the  fault  lay  with  him.  It  was  the 
old  tragedy  of  insularity  trying  to  serve  as  mentor  to  the 
universal. 

"  You  worship  at  the  shrine  of  the  established,"  he  told 
her  once,  in  a  discussion  they  had  over  Praps  and  Vander- 
water.  "I  grant  that  as  authorities  to  quote  they  are 
most  excellent  —  the  two  foremost  literary  critics  in  the 
United  States.  Every  school  teacher  in  the  land  looks  up 
to  Vanderwater  as  the  Dean  of  American  criticism.  Yet 
I  reau.  ^lis  stuff,  and  it  seems  to  me  the  perfection  of  the 
felicitous  expression  of  the  inane.  Why,  he  is  no  more 


MARTIN  EDEN  203 

than  a  ponderous  bromide,  thanks  to  Gelett  Burgess.  And 
Praps  is  no  better.  His  '  Hemlock  Mosses,'  for  instance, 
is  beautifully  written.  Not  a  comma  is  out  of  place;  and 
the  tone  —  ah  !  —  is  lofty,  so  lofty.  He  is  the  best-paid 
critic  in  the  United  States.  Though,  Heaven  forbid!  he's 
not  a  critic  at  all.  They  do  criticism  better  in  Eng 
land. 

"But  the  point  is,  they  sound  the  popular  note,  and 
they  sound  it  so  beautifully  and  morally  and  contentedly 
Their  reviews  remind  me  of  a  British  Sunday.  They  are 
the  popular  mouthpieces.  They  back  up  your  professors 
of  English,  and  your  professors  of  English  back  them  up. 
And  there  isn't  an  original  idea  in  any  of  their  skulls. 
They  know  only  the  established,  — in  fact,  they  are  the 
established.  They  are  weak  minded,  and  the  established 
impresses  itself  upon  them  as  easily  as  the  name  of  the  brew 
ery  is  impressed  on  a  beer  bottle.  And  their  function  is  to 
catch  all  the  young  fellows  attending  the  university,  to 
drive  out  of  their  minds  any  glimmering  originality  that 
may  chance  to  be  there,  and  to  put  upon  them  the  stamp 
of  the  established." 

"  I  think  I  am  nearer  the  truth,"  she  replied,  "  when  I 
stand  by  the  established,  than  you  are,  raging  around  like 
an  iconoclastic  South  Sea  Islander." 

"  It  was  the  missionary  who  did  the  image  breaking," 
he  laughed.  "  And  unfortunately,  all  the  missionaries 
are  off  among  the  heathen,  so  there  are  none  left  at  home 
to  break  those  old  images,  Mr.  Vanderwater  and  Mr. 
Praps." 

"  And  the  college  professors,  as  well,"  she  added. 

He  shook  his  head  emphatically.  "  No  ;  the  science 
professors  should  live.  They're  really  great.  But  it 
would  be  a  good  deed  to  break  the  heads  of  nine-tenths 
of  the  English  professors  —  little,  microscopic-minded 
parrots  !  " 

Which  was  rather  severe  on  the  professors,  but  which 
to  Ruth  was  blasphemy.  She  could  not  help  but  measure 
the  professors,  neat,  scholarly,  in  fitting  clothes,  speaking 
in  well-modulated  voices,  breathing  of  culture  and  refine- 


204  MARTIN  EDEN 

ment,  with  this  almost  indescribable  young  fellow  whom 
somehow  she  loved,  whose  clothes  never  would  fit  him, 
whose  heavy  muscles  told  of  damning  toil,  who  grew  ex 
cited  when  he  talked,  substituting  abuse  for  calm  statement 
and  passionate  utterance  for  cool  self-possession.  They 
at  least  earned  good  salaries  and  were — yes,  she  compelled 
herself  to  face  it  —  were  gentlemen ;  while  he  could  not 
earn  a  penny,  and  he  was  not  as  they. 

She  did  not  weigh  Martin's  words  nor  judge  his  argument 
by  them.  Her  conclusion  that  his  argument  was  wrong 
was  reached  —  unconsciously,  it  is  true  —  by  a  comparison 
of  externals.  They,  the  professors,  were  right  in  their 
literary  judgments  because  they  were  successes.  Martin's 
literary  judgments  were  wrong  because  he  could  not  sell 
his  wares.  To  use  his  own  phrase,  they  made  good,  and  he 
did  not  make  good.  And  besides,  it  did  not  seem  reason 
able  that  he  should  be  right — he  who  had  stood,  so  short 
a  time  before,  in  that  same  living  room,  blushing  and 
awkward,  acknowledging  his  introduction,  looking  fear 
fully  about  him  at  the  bric-a-brac  his  swinging  shoulders 
threatened  to  break,  asking  how  long  since  Swinburne 
died,  and  boastfully  announcing  that  he  had  read  "  Excel 
sior  "  and  the  "  Psalm  of  Life." 

Unwittingly,  Ruth  herself  proved  his  point  that  she  wor 
shipped  the  established.  Martin  followed  the  processes 
of  her  thoughts,  but  forbore  to  go  farther.  He  did  not 
love  her  for  what  she  thought  of  Praps  and  Vanderwater 
and  English  professors,  and  he  was  coming  to  realize,  with 
increasing  conviction,  that  he  possessed  brain-areas  and 
stretches  of  knowledge  which  she  could  never  comprehend 
nor  know  existed. 

In  music  she  thought  him  unreasonable,  and  in  the  mat 
ter  of  opera  not  only  unreasonable  but  wilfully  perverse. 

"  How  did  you  like  it?"  she  asked  him  one  night,  on  the 
way  home  from  the  opera. 

It  was  a  night  when  he  had  taken  her  at  the  expense  of 
a  month's  rigid  economizing  on  food.  After  vainly  wait 
ing  for  him  to  speak  about  it,  herself  still  tremulous  and 
stirred  by  what  she  had  just  seen  and  heard,  she  had  asked 
the  question. 


MARTIN  EDEN  205 

"  I  liked  the  overture,"  was  his  answer.  "  It  was  splen 
did." 

"  Yes,  but  the  opera  itself?" 

"  That  was  splendid  too ;  that  is,  the  orchestra  was,  though 
I'd  have  enjoyed  it  more  if  those  jumping-jacks  had  kept 
quiet  or  gone  off  the  stage." 

Ruth  was  aghast. 

"You  don't  mean  Tetralani  or  Barillp?"  she  queried. 

"All  of  them  —  the  whole  kit  and  crew." 

"  But  they  are  great  artists,"  she  protested. 

"  They  spoiled  the  music  just  the  same,  with  their  antics 
and  unrealities." 

"But  don't  you  like  Barillo's  voice ?"  Ruthasked.  "He 
is  next  to  Caruso,  they  say." 

"  Of  course  I  liked  him,  and  I  liked  Tetralani  even  bet 
ter.  Her  voice  is  exquisite  —  or  at  least  I  think  so." 

"  But,  but — "  Ruth  stammered.  "  I  dcn't  know  what 
you  mean,  then.  You  admire  their  voices,  yet  say  they 
spoiled  the  music." 

"Precisely  that.  I'd  give  anything  to  hear  them  in 
concert,  and  I'd  give  even  a  bit  more  not  to  hear  them 
when  the  orchestra  is  playing.  I'm  afraid  I  am  a  hopeless 
realist.  Great  singers  are  not  great  actors.  To  hear 
Barillo  sing  a  love  passage  with  the  voice  of  an  angel,  and 
to  hear  Tetralani  reply  like  another  angel,  and  to  hear  it 
all  accompanied  by  a  perfect  orgy  of  glowing  and  colorful 
music  —  is  ravishing,  most  ravishing.  I  do  not  admit  it. 
I  assert  it.  But  the  whole  effect  is  spoiled  when  I  look  at 
them  —  at  Tetralani,  five  feet  ten  in  her  stocking  feet  and 
weighing  a  hundred  and  ninety  pounds,  and  at  Barillo,  a 
scant  five  feet  four,  greasy-featured,  with  the  chest  of  a 
squat,  undersized  blacksmith,  and  at  the  pair  of  them,  at 
titudinizing,  clasping  their  breasts,  flinging  their  arms  in 
the  air  like  demented  creatures  in  an  asylum ;  and  when 
I  am  expected  to  accept  all  this  as  the  faithful  illusion  of 
a  love-scene  between  a  slender  and  beautiful  princess  and 
a  handsome,  romantic,  young  prince  —  why,  I  can't 
accept  it,  that's  all.  It's  rot;  it's  absurd;  it's  unreal. 
That's  what's  the  matter  with  it.  It's  not  real. 


206  MARTIN  EDEN 

Don't  tell  me  that  anybody  in  this  world  ever  made  love 
that  way.  Why,  if  I'd  made  love  to  you  in  such  fashion, 
you'd  have  boxed  my  ears." 

"  But  you  misunderstand,"  Ruth  protested.  "  Every 
form  of  art  has  its  limitations."  (She  was  busy  recalling 
a  lecture  she  had  heard  at  the  university  on  the  conven 
tions  of  the  arts.)  "In  painting  there  are  only  two  di 
mensions  to  the  canvas,  yet  you  accept  the  illusion  of  three 
dimensions  which  the  art  of  a  painter  enables  him  to  throw 
into  the  canvas.  In  writing,  again,  the  author  must  be 
omnipotent.  You  accept  as  perfectly  legitimate  the  au 
thor's  account  of  the  secret  thoughts  of  the  heroine,  and 
yet  all  the  time  you  know  that  the  heroine  was  alone  when 
thinking  these  thoughts,  and  that  neither  the  author  nor 
any  one  else  was  capable  of  hearing  them.  And  so  with 
the  stage,  with  sculpture,  with  opera,  with  every  art  form. 
Certain  irreconcilable  things  must  be  accepted." 

"  Yes,  I  understood  that,"  Martin  answered.  "  All  the 
arts  have  their  conventions."  (Ruth  was  surprised  at  his 
use  of  the  word.  It  was  as  if  he  had  studied  at  the 
university  himself,  instead  of  being  ill-equipped  from 
browsing  at  haphazard  through  the  books  in  the  library.) 
"  But  even  the  conventions  must  be  real.  Trees,  painted 
on  flat  cardboard  and  stuck  up  on  each  side  of  the  stage, 
we  accept  as  a  forest.  It  is  a  real  enough  convention. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  we  would  not  accept  a  sea  scene  as 
a  forest.  We  can't  do  it.  It  violates  our  senses.  Nor 
would  you,  or,  rather,  should  you,  accept  the  ravings  and 
writhings  and  agonized  contortions  of  those  two  lunatics 
to-night  as  a  convincing  portrayal  of  love." 

"  But  you  don't  hold  yourself  superior  to  all  the  judges 
of  music  ?  "  she  protested. 

"No,  no,  not  for  a  moment.  I  merely  maintain  my 
right  as  an  individual.  I  have  just  been  telling  you 
what  I  think,  in  order  to  explain  why  the  elephantine 
gambols  of  Madame  Tetralani  spoil  the  orchestra  for  me. 
The  world's  judges  of  music  may  all  be  right.  But  I  am 
I,  and  I  won't  subordinate  my  taste  to  the  unanimous 
judgment  of  mankind.  If  I  don't  like  a  thing,  I  don't 


MARTIN  EDEN  207 

like  it,  that's  all;  and  there  is  no  reason  under  the  sun 
why  I  should  ape  a  liking  for  it  just  because  the  majority 
of  my  fellow-creatures  like  it,  or  make  believe  they  like 
it.  I  can't  follow  the  fashions  in  the  things  I  like  or 
dislike." 

"  But  music,  you  know,  is  a  matter  of  training,"  Ruth 
argued;  "and  opera  is  even  more  a  matter  of  training. 
May  it  not  be  —  " 

"  That  I  am  not  trained  in  opera  ?  "  he  dashed  in. 

She  nodded. 

"  The  very  thing,"  he  agreed.  "  And  I  consider  I  am 
fortunate  in  not  having  been  caught  when  I  was  young. 
If  I  had,  I  could  have  wept  sentimental  tears  to-night, 
and  the  clownish  antics  of  that  precious  pair  would  have 
but  enhanced  the  beauty  of  their  voices  and  the  beauty 
of  the  accompanying  orchestra.  You  are  right.  It's 
mostly  a  matter  of  training.  And  I  am  too  old,  now.  I 
must  have  the  real  or  nothing.  An  illusion  that  won't 
convince  is  a  palpable  lie,  and  that's  what  grand  opera  is 
to  me  when  little  Barillo  throws  a  fit,  clutches  mighty 
Tetralani  in  his  arms  (also  in  a  fit),  and  tells  her  how 
passionately  he  adores  her." 

Again  Ruth  measured  his  thoughts  by  comparison  of 
externals  and  in  accordance  with  her  belief  in  the  estab 
lished.  Who  was  he  that  he  should  be  right  and  all  the 
cultured  world  wrong?  His  words  and  thoughts  made 
no  impression  upon  her.  She  was  too  firmly  intrenched 
in  the  established  to  have  any  sympathy  with  revolution 
ary  ideas.  She  had  always  been  used  to  music,  and  she 
had  enjoyed  opera  ever  since  she  was  a  child,  and  all  her 
world  had  enjoyed  it,  too.  Then  by  what  right  did 
Martin  Eden  emerge,  as  he  had  so  recently  emerged., 
from  his  rag-time  and  working-class  songs,  and  pass  judg 
ment  on  the  world's  music  ?  She  was  vexed  with  him,  and 
as  she  walked  beside  him  she  had  a  vague  feeling  of  out 
rage.  At  the  best,  in  her  most  charitable  frame  of  mind, 
she  considered  the  statement  of  his  views  to  be  a  caprice, 
an  erratic  and  uncalled-for  prank.  But  when  he  took 
tier  in  his  arms  at  the  door  and  kissed  her  good  night  in 


208  MARTIN  EDEN 

tender  lover-fashion,  she  forgot  everything  in  the  outrush 
of  her  own  love  to  him.  And  later,  on  a  sleepless  pillow, 
she  puzzled,  as  she  had  often  puzzled  of  late,  as  to  how  it 
was  that  she  loved  so  strange  a  man,  and  loved  him  despite 
the  disapproval  of  her  people. 

And  next  day  Martin  Eden  cast  hack-work  aside,  and 
at  white  heat  hammered  out  an  essay  to  which  he  gave 
the  title,  "The  Philosophy  of  Illusion."  A  stamp  started 
it  on  its  travels,  but  it  was  destined  to  receive  many 
stamps  and  to  be  started  on  many  travels  in  the  months 
that  followed. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

MAKIA  SILVA  was  poor,  and  all  the  ways  of  poverty 
were  clear  to  her.  Poverty,  to  Ruth,  was  a  word  signi 
fying  a  not-nice  condition  of  existence.  That  was  her 
total  knowledge  on  the  subject.  She  knew  Martin  was 
poor,  and  his  condition  she  associated  in  her  mind  with 
the  boyhood  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  of  Mr.  Butler,  and  of 
other  men  who  had  become  successes.  Also,  while  aware 
that  poverty  was  anything  but  delectable,  she  had  a  com 
fortable  middle-class  feeling  that  poverty  was  salutary, 
that  it  was  a  sharp  spur  that  urged  on  to  success  all  men 
who  were  not  degraded  and  hopeless  drudges.  So  that 
her  knowledge  that  Martin  was  so  poor  that  he  had 
pawned  his  watch  and  overcoat  did  not  disturb  her.  She 
even  considered  it  the  hopeful  side  of  the  situation,  be- 
jlieving  that  sooner  or  later  it  would  arouse  him  and  com 
pel  him  to  abandon  his  writing. 

Ruth  never  read  hunger  in  Martin's  face,  which  had 
grown  lean  and  had  enlarged  the  slight  hollows  in  the 
cheeks.  In  fact,  she  marked  the  change  in  his  face  with 
satisfaction.  It  seemed  to  refine  him,  to  remove  from  him 
much  of  the  dross  of  flesh  and  the  too  animal-like  vigor 
that  lured  her  while  she  detested  it.  Sometimes,  when 
with  her,  she  noted  an  unusual  brightness  in  his  eyes,  and 
she  admired  it,  for  it  made  him  appear  more  the  poet 
and  the  scholar  —  the  things  he  would  have  liked  to  be 
and  which  she  would  have  liked  him  to  be.  But  Maria 
Silva  read  a  different  tale  in  the  hollow  cheeks  and  the 
burning  eyes,  and  she  noted  the  changes  in  them  from 
day  to  day,  by  them  following  the  ebb  and  flow  of  his 
fortunes.  She  saw  him  leave  the  house  with  his  overcoat 
and  return  without  it,  though  the  day  was  chill  and  raw, 
and  promptly  she  saw  his  cheeks  fill  out  slightly  and  the 
p  '  209 


210  MARTIN  EDEN 

fire  of  hunger  leave  his  eyes.  In  the  same  way  she  had 
seen  his  wheel  and  watch  go,  and  after  each  event  she  had 
seen  his  vigor  bloom  again. 

Likewise  she  watched  his  toils,  and  knew  the  measure 
of  the  midnight  oil  he  burned.  Work  !  She  knew  that 
he  outdid  her,  though  his  work  was  of  a  different  order. 
And  she  was  surprised  to  behold  that  the  less  food  he  had, 
the  harder  he  worked.  On  occasion,  in  a  casual  sort  of 
way,  when  she  thought  hunger  pinched  hardest,  she  would 
send  him  in  a  loaf  of  new  baking,  awkwardly  covering  the 
act  with  banter  to  the  effect  that  it  was  better  than  he 
could  bake.  And  again,  she  would  send  one  of  her  tod 
dlers  in  to  him  with  a  great  pitcher  of  hot  soup,  debating 
inwardly  the  while  whether  she  was  justified  in  taking  it 
from  the  mouths  of  her  own  flesh  and  blood.  Nor  was 
Martin  ungrateful,  knowing  as  he  did  the  lives  of  the  poor, 
and  that  if  ever  in  the  world  there  was  charity,  this  was  it. 

On  a  day  when  she  had  filled  her  brood  with  what  was 
left  in  the  house,  Maria  invested  her  last  fifteen  cents  in  a 
gallon  of  cheap  wine.  Martin,  coming  into  her  kitchen  to 
fetch  water,  was  invited  to  sit  down  and  drink.  He  drank 
her  very  good  health,  and  in  return  she  drank  his.  Then 
she  drank  to  prosperity  in  his  undertakings,  and  he  drank 
to  the  hope  that  James  Grant  would  show  up  and  pay  her 
for  his  washing.  James  Grant  was  a  journeymen  carpen 
ter  who  did  not  always  pay  his  bills  and  who  owed  Maria 
three  dollars. 

Both  Maria  and  Martin  drank  the  sour  new  wine  on 
empty  stomachs,  and  it  went  swiftly  to  their  heads. 
Utterly  differentiated  creatures  that  they  were,  they  were 
lonely  in  their  misery,  and  though  the  misery  was  tacitly 
ignored,  it  was  the  bond  that  drew  them  together.  Maria 
was  amazed  to  learn  that  he  had  been  in  the  Azores,  where  she 
had  lived  until  she  was  eleven.  She  was  doubly  amazed 
that  he  had  been  in  the  Hawaiian  Islands,  whither  she  had 
migrated  from  the  Azores  with  her  people.  But  her  amaze 
ment  passed  all  bounds  when  he  told  her  he  had  been  on 
Maui,  the  particular  island  whereon  she  had  attained 
womanhood  and  married.  Kahului,  where  she  had  first 


MARTIN  EDEN  211 

met  her  husband,  —  he,  Martin,  had  been  there  twice! 
Yes,  she  remembered  the  sugar  steamers,  and  he  had  been 
on  them  —  well,  well,  it  was  a  small  world.  And  Wailuku ! 
That  place,  too  !  Did  he  know  the  head-luna  of  the 
plantation  ?  Yes,  and  had  had  a  couple  of  drinks  with  him. 

And  so  they  reminiscenced  and  drowned  their  hunger 
in  the  raw,  sour  wine.  To  Martin  the  future  did  not 
seem  so  dim.  Success  trembled  just  before  him.  He  was 
on  the  verge  of  clasping  it.  Then  he  studied  the  deep- 
lined  face  of  the  toil-worn  woman  before  him,  remem 
bered  her  soups  and  loaves  of  new  baking,  and  felt 
spring  up  in  him  the  warmest  gratitude  and  philanthropy. 

"  Maria,"  he  exclaimed  suddenly.  "  What  would  you 
like  to  have  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him,  bepuzzled. 

"  What  would  you  like  to  have  now,  right  now,  if  you 
could  get  it  ?  " 

"Shoe  alia  da  roun'  for  da  childs  —  seven  pairs  da 
shoe." 

"  You  shall  have  them,"  he  announced,  while  she  nodded 
her  head  gravely.  "  But  I  mean  a  big  wish,  something 
big  that  you  want." 

Her  eyes  sparkled  good-naturedly.  He  was  choosing 
to  make  fun  with  her,  Maria,  with  whom  few  made  fun 
these  days. 

"  Think  hard,"  he  cautioned,  just  as  she  was  opening 
her  mouth  to  speak. 

"  Alia  right,"  she  answered.  "  I  thinka  da  hard.  I  lika 
da  house,  dis  house  — all  mine,  no  paya  da  rent,  seven  dol 
lar  da  month." 

"  You  shall  have  it,"  he  granted,  "  and  in  a  short  time. 
Now  wish  the  great  wish.  Make  believe  I  am  God,  and 
I  say  to  you  anything  you  want  you  can  have.  Then  you 
wish  that  thing,  and  I  listen." 

Maria  considered  solemnly  for  a  space. 

"  You  no  'fraid  ?  "  she  asked  warningly. 

"  No,  no,"  he  laughed,  "  I'm  not  afraid.     Go  ahead." 

"  Most  verra  big,"  she  warned  again. 

"All  right.      Fire  away." 


212  MARTIN  EDEN 

"Well,  den — "  She  drew  a  big  breath  like  a  child, 
as  she  voiced  to  the  uttermost  all  she  cared  to  demand  of 
life.  "I  lika  da  have  one  milka  ranch — good  milka 
ranch.  Plenty  cow,  plenty  land,  plenty  grass.  I  lika  da 
have  near  San  Le-an  ;  my  sister  liva  dere.  I  sella  da 
milk  in  Oakland.  I  maka  da  plentee  mon.  Joe  an'  Nick 
no  runna  da  cow.  Dey  go-a  to  school.  Bimeby  maka  da 
good  engineer,  worka  da  railroad.  Yes,  I  lika  da  milka 
ranch." 

She  paused  and  regarded  Martin  with  twinkling  eyes. 

"  You  shall  have  it,"  he  answered  promptly. 

She  nodded  her  head  and  touched  her  lips  courteously 
to  the  wine-glass  and  to  the  giver  of  the  gift  she  knew 
would  never  be  given.  His  heart  was  right,  and  in  her  own 
heart  she  appreciated  his  intention  as  much  as  if  the  gift 
had  gone  with  it. 

"  No,  Maria,"  he  went  on ;  "  Nick  and  Joe  won't  have  to 
peddle  milk,  and  all  the  kids  can  go  to  school  and  wear 
shoes  the  whole  year  round.  It  will  be  a  first-class  milk 
ranch  —  everything  complete.  There  will  be  a  house  to 
live  in  and  a  stable  for  the  horses,  and  cow-barns,  of  course. 
There  will  be  chickens,  pigs,  vegetables,  fruit  trees,  and 
everything  like  that ;  and  there  will  be  enough  cows  to 
pay  for  a  hired  man  or  two.  Then  you  won't  have  any 
thing  to  do  but  take  care  of  the  children.  For  that  mat 
ter,  if  you  find  a  good  man,  you  can  marry  and  take  it 
easy  while  he  runs  the  ranch." 

And  from  such  largess,  dispensed  from  his  future, 
Martin  turned  and  took  his  one  good  suit  of  clothes  to  the 
pawnshop.  His  plight  was  desperate  for  him  to  do  this, 
for  it  cut  him  off  from  Ruth.  He  had  no  second-best  suit 
that  was  presentable,  and  though  he  could  go  to  the 
butcher  and  the  baker,  and  even  on  occasion  to  his  sister's, 
it  was  beyond  all  daring  to  dream  of  entering  the  Morse 
home  so  disreputably  apparelled. 

He  toiled  on,  miserable  and  well-nigh  hopeless.  It 
began  to  appear  to  him  that  the  second  battle  was  lost  and 
that  he  would  have  to  go  to  work.  In  doing  this  he  would 
satisfy  everybody — the  grocer,  his  sister,  Ruth,  and  even 


MARTIN  EDEN  213 

Maria,  to  whom  he  owed  a  month's  room  rent.  He  was 
two  months  behind  with  his  type-writer,  and  the  agency 
was  clamoring  for  payment  or  for  the  return  of  the 
machine.  In  desperation,  all  but  ready  to  surrender,  to 
make  a  truce  with  fate  until  he  could  get  a  fresh  start,  he 
took  the  civil  service  examinations  for  the  Railway  Mail. 
To  his  surprise,  he  passed  first.  The  job  was  assured, 
though  when  the  call  would  come  to  enter  upon  his  duties 
nobody  knew. 

It  was  at  this  time,  at  the  lowest  ebb,  that  the  smooth- 
running  editorial  machine  broke  down.  A  cog  must  have 
slipped  or  an  oil-cup  run  dry,  for  the  postman  brought 
him  one  morning  a  short,  thin  envelope.  Martin  glanced 
at  the  upper  left-hand  corner  and  read  the  name  and 
address  of  the  Transcontinental  Monthly.  His  heart  gave 
a  great  leap,  and  he  suddenly  felt  faint,  the  sinking 
feeling  accompanied  by  a  strange  trembling  of  the  knees. 
He  staggered  into  his  room  and  sat  down  on  the  bed,  the 
envelope  still  unopened,  and  in  that  moment  came  under 
standing  to  him  how  people  suddenly  fall  dead  upon 
receipt  of  extraordinarily  good  news. 

Of  course  this  was  good  news.  There  was  no  manu 
script  in  that  thin  envelope,  therefore  it  was  an  acceptance. 
He  knew  the  story  in  the  hands  of  the  Transconti 
nental.  It  was  "The  Ring  of  Bells,"  one  of  his  horror 
stories,  and  it  was  an  even  five  thousand  words.  And, 
since  first-class  magazines  always  paid  on  acceptance, 
there  was  a  check  inside.  Two  cents  a  word  —  twenty 
dollars  a  thousand  ;  the  check  must  be  a  hundred  dollars. 
One  hundred  dollars  !  As  he  tore  the  envelope  open, 
every  item  of  all  his  debts  surged  in  his  brain  —  $3.85 
to  the  grocer;  butcher,  $4.00  flat;  baker,  $2.00;  fruit  store, 
$5.00  ;  total,  $14.85.  Then  there  was  room  rent,  $2.50; 
another  month  in  advance,  $2.50;  two  months'  type-writer, 
$8.00;  a  month  in  advance,  $4.00;  total,  $31.85.  And 
finally  to  be  added,  his  pledges,  plus  interest,  with  the 
pawnbroker — watch,  $5.50;  overcoat,  $5.50;  wheel, $7. 75; 
suit  of  clothes,  $5.50  (60  °/0  interest,  but  what  did  it 
matter?)  —  grand  total,  $56.10.  He  saw,  as  if  visible  in 


214  MARTIN  EDEN 

the  air  before  him,  in  illuminated  figures,  the  whole  sum, 
and  the  subtraction  that  followed  and  that  gave  a  re 
mainder  of  $43.90.  When  he  had  squared  every  debt, 
redeemed  every  pledge,  he  would  still  have  jingling  in 
his  pockets  a  princely  $43.90.  And  on  top  of  that  he 
would  have  a  month's  rent  paid  in  advance  on  the  type 
writer  and  on  the  room. 

By  this  time  he  had  drawn  the  single  sheet  of  type 
written  letter  out  and  spread  it  open.  There  was  no 
check.  He  peered  into  the  envelope,  held  it  to  the  light, 
but  could  not  trust  his  eyes,  and  in  trembling  haste  tore 
the  envelope  apart.  There  was  no  check.  He  read 
the  letter,  skimming  it  line  by  line,  dashing  through 
the  editor's  praise  of  his  story  to  the  meat  of  the  letter,  the 
statement  why  the  check  had  not  been  sent.  He  found 
no  such  statement,  but  he  did  find  that  which  made 
him  suddenly  wilt.  The  letter  slid  from  his  hand.  His 
eyes  went  lack-lustre,  and  he  lay  back  on  the  pillow, 
pulling  the  blanket  about  him  and  up  to  his  chin. 

Five  dollars  for  "  The  Ring  of  Bells  "  —  five  dollars 
for  five  thousand  words!  Instead  of  two  cents  a  word, 
ten  words  for  a  cent!  And  the  editor  had  praised  it,  too. 
And  he  would  receive  the  check  when  the  story  was  pub 
lished.  Then  it  was  all  poppycock,  two  cents  a  word  for 
minimum  rate  and  payment  upon  acceptance.  It  was  a 
lie,  and  it  had  led  him  astray.  He  would  never  have 
attempted  to  write  had  he  known  that.  He  would  have 
gone  to  work  —  to  work  for  Ruth.  He  went  back  to  the 
day  he  first  attempted  to  write,  and  was  appalled  at  the 
enormous  waste  of  time  —  and  all  for  ten  words  for  a 
cent.  And  the  other  high  rewards  of  writers,  that  he 
had  read  about,  must  be  lies,  too.  His  second-hand  ideas 
of  authorship  were  wrong,  for  here  was  the  proof  of  it. 

The  Transcontinental  sold  for  twenty-five  cents,  and 
its  dignified  and  artistic  cover  proclaimed  it  as  among 
the  first-class  magazines.  It  was  a  staid,  respectable 
magazine,  and  it  had  been  published  continuously  since 
long  before  he  was  born.  Why,  on  the  outside  cover  were 
printed  every  month  the  words  of  one  of  the  world's  great 


MARTIN  EDEN"  215 

writers,  words  proclaiming  the  inspired  mission  of  the 
Transcontinental  by  a  star  of  literature  whose  first 
coruscations  had  appeared  inside  those  self-same  covers. 
And  the  high  and  lofty,  heaven-inspired  Transconti 
nental  paid  five  dollars  for  five  thousand  words!  The 
great  writer  had  recently  died  in  a  foreign  land  —  in  dire 
poverty,  Martin  remembered,  which  was  not  to  be 
wondered  at,  considering  the  magnificent  pay  authors 
receive. 

Well,  he  had  taken  the  bait,  the  newspaper  lies  about 
writers  and  their  pay,  and  he  had  wasted  two  years  over 
it.  But  he  would  disgorge  the  bait  now.  Not  another 
line  would  he  ever  write.  He  would  do  what  Ruth 
wanted  him  to  do,  what  everybody  wanted  him  to  do  — 
get  a  job.  The  thought  of  going  to  work  reminded  him 
of  Joe  —  Joe,  tramping  through  the  land  of  nothing-to-do. 
Martin  heaved  a  great  sigh  of  envy.  The  reaction  of 
nineteen  hours  a  day  for  many  days  was  strong  upon  him. 
But  then,  Joe  was  not  in  love,  had  none  of  the  responsi 
bilities  of  love,  and  he  could  afford  to  loaf  through  the 
land  of  nothing-to-do.  He,  Martin,  had  something  to 
work  for,  and  go  to  work  he  would.  He  would  start  out 
early  next  morning  to  hunt  a  job.  And  he  would  let 
Ruth  know,  too,  that  he  had  mended  his  ways  and  was 
willing  to  go  into  her  father's  office. 

Five  dollars  for  five  thousand  words,  ten  words  for  a 
cent,  the  market  price  for  art.  The  disappointment  of  it, 
the  lie  of  it,  the  infamy  of  it,  were  uppermost  in  his 
thoughts;  and  under  his  closed  eyelids,  in  fiery  figures, 
burned  the  "$3.85 "he  owed  the  grocer.  He  shivered, 
and  was  aware  of  an  aching  in  his  bones.  The  small  of 
his  back  ached  especially.  His  head  ached,  the  top  of  it 
ached,  the  back  of  it  ached,  the  brains  inside  of  it  ached 
and  seemed  to  be  swelling,  while  the  ache  over  his  brows 
was  intolerable.  And  beneath  the  brows,  planted  under 
his  lids,  was  the  merciless  "$3.85."  He  opened  his  eyes 
to  escape  it,  but  the  white  light  of  the  room  seemed  to 
sear  the  balls  and  forced  him  to  close  his  eyes,  when  the 
"f3.85"  confronted  him  again. 


216  MARTIN  EDEN 

Five  dollars  for  five  thousand  words,  ten  words  for  a 
cent  —  that  particular  thought  took  up  its  residence  in 
his  brain,  and  he  could  no  more  escape  it  than  he  could 
the  "-$3.85"  under  his  eyelids.  A  change  seemed  to 
come  over  the  latter,  and  he  watched  curiously,  till  "  $2.00  " 
burned  in  its  stead.  Ah,  he  thought,  that  was  the  baker. 
The  next  sum  that  appeared  was  "$2.50."  It  puzzled 
him,  and  he  pondered  it  as  if  life  and  death  hung  on  the 
solution.  He  owed  somebody  two  dollars  and  a  half,  that 
was  certain,  but  who  was  it  ?  To  find  it  was  the  task  set 
him  by  an  imperious  and  malignant  universe,  and  he 
wandered  through  the  endless  corridors  of  his  mind,  open 
ing  all  manner  of  lumber  rooms  and  chambers  stored  with 
odds  and  ends  of  memories  and  knowledge  as  he  vainly 
sought  the  answer.  After  several  centuries  it  came  to 
him,  easily,  without  effort,  that  it  was  Maria.  With  a 
great  relief  he  turned  his  soul  to  the  screen  of  torment 
under  his  lids.  He  had  solved  the  problem;  now  he 
could  rest.  But  no,  the  "  $2. 50  "  faded  away,  and  in  its 
place  burned  "  $8.00."  Who  was  that  ?  He  must  go  the 
dreary  round  of  his  mind  again  and  find  out. 

How  long  he  was  gone  on  this  quest  he  did  not  know, 
but  after  what  seemed  an  enormous  lapse  of  time,  he  was 
called  back  to  himself  by  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  by 
Maria's  asking  if  he  was  sick.  He  replied  in  a  muffled 
voice  he  did  not  recognize,  saying  that  he  was  merely 
taking  a  nap.  He  was  surprised  when  he  noted  the  dark 
ness  of  night  in  the  room.  He  had  received  the  letter 
at  two  in  the  afternoon,  and  he  realized  that  he  was  sick. 

Then  the  "$8.00"  began  to  smoulder  under  his  lids 
again,  and  he  returned  himself  to  servitude.  But  he 
grew  cunning.  There  was  no  need  for  him  to  wander 
through  his  mind.  He  had  been  a  fool.  He  pulled  a 
lever  and  made  his  mind  revolve  about  him,  a  monstrous 
wheel  of  fortune,  a  merry-go-round  of  memory,  a  revolv 
ing  sphere  of  wisdom.  Faster  and  faster  it  revolved, 
until  its  vortex  sucked  him  in  and  he  was  flung  whirling 
through  black  chaos. 

Quite  naturally  he  found  himself  at  a  mangle,  feeding 


MARTIN  EDEN  217 

starched  cuffs.  But  as  he  fed  he  noticed  figures  printed 
on  the  cuffs.  It  was  a  new  way  of  marking  linen,  he 
thought,  until,  looking  closer,  he  saw  "$3.85"  on  one  of 
the  cuffs.  Then  it  came  to  him  that  it  was  the  grocer's 
bill,  and  that  these  were  his  bills  flying  around  on  the 
drum  of  the  mangle.  A  cratty  idea  came  to  him.  He 
would  throw  the  bills  on  the  floor  and  so  escape  paying 
them.  No  sooner  thought  than  done,  and  he  crumpled 
the  cuffs  spitefully  as  he  flung  them  upon  an  unusually 
dirty  floor.  Ever  the  heap  grew,  and  though  each  bill 
was  duplicated  a  thousand  times,  he  found  only  one  for 
two  dollars  and  a  half,  which  was  what  he  owed  Maria. 
That  meant  that  Maria  would  not  press  for  payment,  and 
he  resolved  generously  that  it  would  be  the  only  one  he 
would  pay;  so  he  began  searching  through  the  cast-out 
heap  for  hers.  He  sought  it  desperately,  for  ages,  and 
was  still  searching  when  the  manager  of  the  hotel  entered, 
the  fat  Dutchman.  His  face  blazed  with  wrath,  and  he 
shouted  in  stentorian  tones  that  echoed  down  the  uni 
verse,  "  I  shall  deduct  the  cost  of  those  cuffs  from  your 
wages!  "  The  pile  of  cuffs  grew  into  a  mountain,  and 
Martin  knew  that  he  was  doomed  to  toil  for  a  thousand 
years  to  pay  for  them.  Well,  there  was  nothing  left  to 
do  but  kill  the  manager  and  burn  down  the  laundry. 
But  the  big  Dutchman  frustrated  him,  seizing  him  by  the 
nape  of  the  neck  and  dancing  him  up  and  down.  He 
danced  him  over  the  ironing  tables,  the  stove,  and  the 
mangles,  and  out  into  the  wash-room  and  over  the  wringer 
and  washer.  Martin  was  danced  until  his  teeth  rattled 
and  his  head  ached,  and  he  marvelled  that  the  Dutchman 
was  so  strong. 

And  then  he  found  himself  before  the  mangle,  this  time 
receiving  the  cuffs  an  editor  of  a  magazine  was  feeding 
from  the  other  side.  Each  cuff  was  a  check,  and  Martin 
went  over  them  anxiously,  in  a  fever  of  expectation,  but 
they  were  all  blanks.  He  stood  there  and  received  the 
blanks  for  a  million  years  or  so,  never  letting  one  go  by 
for  fear  it  might  be  filled  out.  At  last  he  found  it.  With 
trembling  fingers  he  held  it  to  the  light.  It  was  for  five 


218  MARTIN  EDEN 

dollars.  "  Ha  !  Ha  !  "  laughed  the  editor  across  the  man 
gle.  "  Well,  then,  I  shall  kill  you,^'  Martin  said.  He 
went  out  into  the  wash-room  to  get  the  axe,  and  found 
Joe  starching  manuscripts.  He  tried  to  make  him  desist, 
then  swung  the  axe  for  him.  But  the  weapon  remained 
poised  in  mid-air,  for  Martin  found  himself  back  in  the 
ironing  room  in  the  midst  of  a  snow-storm.  No,  it  was 
not  snow  that  was  falling,  but  checks  of  large  denomina 
tion,  the  smallest  not  less  than  a  thousand  dollars.  He 
began  to  collect  them  and  sort  them  out,  in  packages  of 
a  hundred,  tying  each  package  securely  with  twine. 

He  looked  up  from  his  task  and  saw  Joe  standing 
before  him  juggling  flat-irons,  starched  shirts,  and  manu 
scripts.  Now  and  again  he  reached  out  and  added  a  bun 
dle  of  checks  to  the  flying  miscellany  that  soared  through 
the  roof  and  out  of  sight  in  a  tremendous  circle.  Martin 
struck  at  him,  but  he  seized  the  axe  and  added  it  to  the 
flying  circle.  Then  he  plucked  Martin  and  added  him. 
Martin  went  up  through  the  roof,  clutching  at  manu 
scripts,  so  that  by  the  time  he  came  down  he  had  a  large 
armful.  But  no  sooner  down  than  up  again,  and  a  second 
and  a  third  time  and  countless  times  he  flew  around  the 
circle.  From  far  off  he  could  hear  a  childish  treble  sing 
ing  :  "  Waltz  me  around  again,  Willie,  around,  around, 
around." 

He  recovered  the  axe  in  the  midst  of  the  Milky  Way  of 
checks,  starched  shirts,  and  manuscripts,  and  prepared, 
when  he  came  down,  to  kill  Joe.  But  he  did  not  come 
down.  Instead,  at  two  in  the  morning,  Maria,  having 
heard  his  groans  through  the  thin  partition,  came  into  his 
room,  to  put  hot  flat-irons  against  his  body  and  damp 
cloths  upon  his  aching  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

MARTIN  EDEN  did  not  go  out  to  hunt  for  a  job  in  the 
morning.  It  was  late  afternoon  before  he  Game  out  of  his 
delirium  and  gazed  with  aching  eyes  about  the  room. 
Mary,  one  of  the  tribe  of  Silva,  eight  years  old,  keeping 
watch,  raised  a  screech  at  sight  of  his  returning  conscious 
ness.  Maria  hurried  into  the  room  from  the  kitchen. 
She  put  her  work-calloused  hand  upon  his  hot  forehead 
and  felt  his  pulse. 

"  You  lika  da  eat  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head.  Eating  was  farthest  from  his  desire, 
and  he  wondered  that  he  should  ever  have  been  hungry  in 
his  life. 

"  I'm  sick,  Maria,"  he  said  weakly.  "  What  is  it  ?  Do 
you  know  ?  " 

"  Grip,"  she  answered.  "  Two  or  three  days  you  alia  da 
right.  Better  you  no  eat  now.  Bimeby  plenty  can  eat, 
to-morrow  can  eat  maybe." 

Martin  was  not  used  to  sickness,  and  when  Maria  and 
her  little  girl  left  him,  he  essayed  to  get  up  and  dress.  By 
a  supreme  exertion  of  will,  with  reeling  brain  and  eyes 
that  ached  so  that  he  could  not  keep  them  open,  he  man 
aged  to  get  out  of  bed,  only  to  be  left  stranded  by  his 
senses  upon  the  table.  Half  an  hour  later  he  managed  to  re 
gain  the  bed,  where  he  was  content  to  lie  with  closed  eyes 
and  analyze  his  various  pains  and  weaknesses.  Maria 
came  in  several  times  to  change  the  cold  cloths  on  his 
forehead.  Otherwise  she  left  him  in  peace,  too  wise  to 
vex  him  with  chatter.  This  moved  him  to  gratitude,  and 
he  murmured  to  himself,  "  Maria,  you  getta  da  milka 
ranch,  all  righta,  all  right." 

Then  he  remembered  his  long-buried  past  of  yesterday. 
It  seemed  a  life-time  since  he  had  received  that  letter  from 

219 


220  MARTIN  EDEN 

the  Transcontinental,  a  life-time  since  it  was  all  over  and 
done  with  and  a  new  page  turned.  He  had  shot  his  bolt, 
and  shot  it  hard,  and  now  he  was  down  on  his  back.  If 
he  hadn't  starved  himself,  he  wouldn't  have  been  caught 
by  La  Grippe.  He  had  been  run  down,  and  he  had  not 
had  the  strength  to  throw  off  the  germ  of  disease  which 
had  invaded  his  system.  This  was  what  resulted. 

"  What  does  it  profit  a  man  to  write  a  whole  library  and 
lose  his  own  life  ? "  he  demanded  aloud.  "  This  is  no 
place  for  me.  No  more  literature  in  mine.  Me  for  the 
counting-house  and  ledger,  the  monthly  salary,  and  the 
little  home  with  Ruth." 

Two  days  later,  having  eaten  an  egg  and  two  slices  of 
toast  and  drunk  a  cup  of  tea,  he  asked  for  his  mail,  but 
found  his  eyes  still  hurt  too  much  to  permit  him  to  read. 

"  You  read  for  me,  Maria,"  he  said.  "  Never  mind  the 
big,  long  letters.  Throw  them  under  the  table.  Read 
me  the  small  letters." 

"No  can,"  was  the  answer.  "  Teresa,  she  go  to  school, 
she  can." 

So  Teresa  Silva,  aged  nine,  opened  his  letters  and  read 
them  to  him.  He  listened  absently  to  a  long  dun  from 
the  type-writer  people,  his  mind  busy  with  ways  and 
means  of  finding  a  job.  Suddenly  he  was  shocked  back  to 
himself. 

"  4  We  offer  you  forty  dollars  for  all  serial  rights  in  your 
story,'  "  Teresa  slowly  spelled  out,  "  '  provided  you  allow 
us  to  make  the  alterations  suggested.' " 

"  What  magazine  is  that  ? "  Martin  shouted.  "  Here, 
give  it  to  me  ! " 

He  could  see  to  read,  now,  and  he  was  unaware  of  the 
pain  of  the  action.  It  was  the  White  Mouse  that  was  offer 
ing  him  forty  dollars,  and  the  story  was  "  The  Whirlpool," 
another  of  his  early  horror  stories.  He  read  the  letter 
through  again  and  again.  The  editor  told  him  plainly 
that  he  had  not  handled  the  idea  properly,  but  that  it  was 
the  idea  they  were  buying  because  it  was  original.  If 
they  could  cut  the  story  down  one-third,  they  would  take 
it  and  send  him  forty  dollars  on  receipt  of  his  answer. 


MARTIN  EDEN  221 

He  called  for  pen  and  ink,  and  told  the  editor  he  could 
cut  the  story  down  three-thirds  if  he  wanted  to,  and  to 
send  the  forty  dollars  right  along. 

The  letter  despatched  to  the  letter-box  by  Teresa,  Mar 
tin  lay  back  and  thought.  It  wasn't  a  lie,  after  all.  The 
White  Mouse  paid  on  acceptance.  There  were  three 
thousand  words  in  "The  Whirlpool."  Cut  down  a  third, 
there  would  be  two  thousand.  At  forty  dollars  that  would 
be  two  cents  a  word.  Pay  on  acceptance  and  two  cents  a 
word  —  the  newspapers  had  told  the  truth.  And  he  had 
thought  the  White  Mouse  a  third-rater  I  It  was  evi 
dent  that  he  did  not  know  the  magazines.  He  had 
deemed  the  Transcontinental  a  first-rater,  and  it  paid  a 
cent  for  ten  words.  He  had  classed  the  White  Mouse 
as  of  no  account,  and  it  paid  twenty  times  as  much  as 
the  Transcontinental  and  also  had  paid  on  acceptance. 

Well,  there  was  one  thing  certain  :  when  he  got  well, 
he  would  not  go  out  looking  for  a  job.  There  were  more 
stories  in  his  head  as  good  as  "The  Whirlpool,"  and  at 
forty  dollars  apiece  he  could  earn  far  more  than  in  any 
job  or  position.  Just  when  he  thought  the  battle  lost,  it 
was  won.  He  had  proved  for  his  career.  The  way  was 
clear.  Beginning  with  the  White  Mouse  he  would 
add  magazine  after  magazine  to  his  growing  list  of 
patrons.  Hack-work  could  be  put  aside.  For  that  mat 
ter,  it  had  been  wasted  time,  for  it  had  not  brought  him 
a  dollar.  He  would  devote  himself  to  work,  good  work, 
and  he  would  pour  out  the  best  that  was  in  him.  He 
wished  Ruth  was  there  to  share  in  his  joy,  and  when  he 
went  over  the  letters  left  lying  on  his  bed,  he  found  one 
from  her.  It  was  sweetly  reproachful,  wondering  what 
had  kept  him  away  for  so  dreadful  a  length  of  time.  He 
reread  the  letter  adoringly,  dwelling  over  her  hand 
writing,  loving  each  stroke  of  her  pen,  and  in  the  end 
kissing  her  signature. 

And  when  he  answered,  he  told  her  recklessly  that  he 
had  not  been  to  see  her  because  his  best  clothes  were  in 
pawn.  He  told  her  that  he  had  been  sick,  but  was  once 
more  nearly  well,  and  that  inside  ten  days  or  two  weeks 


222  MARTIN  EDEN 

(as  soon  as  a  letter  could  travel  to  New  York  City  and 
return)  he  would  redeem  his  clothes  and  be  with  her. 

But  Ruth  did  not  care  to  wait  ten  days  or  two  weeks. 
Besides,  her  lover  was  sick.  The  next  afternoon,  accom 
panied  by  Arthur,  she  arrived  in  the  Morse  carriage,  to 
the  unqualified  delight  of  the  Silva  tribe  and  of  all  the 
urchins  on  the  street,  and  to  the  consternation  of  Maria. 
She  boxed  the  ears  of  the  Silvas  who  crowded  about  the 
visitors  on  the  tiny  front  porch,  and  in  more  than  usual 
atrocious  English  tried, to  apologize  for  her  appearance. 
Sleeves  rolled  up  from  soap-flecked  arms  and  a  wet 
gunny-sack  around  her  waist  told  of  the  task  at  which 
she  had  been  caught.  So  flustered  was  she  by  two  such 
grand  young  people  asking  for  her  lodger,  that  she  forgot 
to  invite  them  to  sit  down  in  the  little  parlor.  To  enter 
Martin's  room,  they  passed  through  the  kitchen,  warm 
and  moist  and  steamy  from  the  big  washing  in  progress. 
Maria,  in  her  excitement,  jammed  the  bedroom  and  bed 
room-closet  doors  together,  and  for  five  minutes,  through 
the  partly  open  door,  clouds  of  steam,  smelling  of  soap 
suds  and  dirt,  poured  into  the  sick  chamber. 

Ruth  succeeded  in  veering  right  and  left  and  right 
again,  and  in  running  the  narrow  passage  between  table 
and  bed  to  Martin's  side  ;  but  Arthur  veered  too  wide 
and  fetched  up  with  clatter  and  bang  of  pots  and  pans 
in  the  corner  where  Martin  did  his  cooking.  Arthur  did 
not  linger  long.  Ruth  occupied  the  only  chair,  and  hav 
ing  done  his  duty,  he  went  outside  and  stood  by  the  gate, 
the  centre  of  seven  marvelling  Silvas,  who  watched  him  as 
they  would  have  watched  a  curiosity  in  a  side-show.  All 
about  the  carriage  were  gathered  the  children  from  a 
dozen  blocks,  waiting  and  eager  for  some  tragic  and 
terrible  denouement.  Carriages  were  seen  on  their  street 
only  for  weddings  and  funerals.  Here  was  neither  mar 
riage  nor  death ;  therefore,  it  was  something  transcending 
experience  and  well  worth  waiting  for. 

Martin  had  been  wild  to  see  Ruth.  His  was  essentially 
a  love-nature,  and  he  possessed  more  than  the  average 
man's  need  for  sympathy.  He  was  starving  for  sympathy, 


MARTIN  EDEN  223 

which,  with  him,  meant  intelligent  understanding ;  and 
he  had  yet  to  learn  that  Ruth's  sympathy  was  largely 
sentimental  and  tactful,  and  that  it  proceeded  from  gentle 
ness  of  nature  rather  than  from  understanding  of  the 
objects  of  her  sympathy.  So  it  was  while  Martin  held  her 
hand  and  gladly  talked,  that  her  love  for  him  prompted 
her  to  press  his  hand  in  return,  and  that  her  eyes  were 
moist  and  luminous  at  sight  of  his  helplessness  and  of 
the  marks  suffering  had  stamped  upon  his  face. 

But  while  he  told  her  of  his  two  acceptances,  of  his 
despair  when  he  received  the  one  from  the  Transcon 
tinental,  and  of  the  corresponding  delight  with  which  he 
received  the  one  from  the  White  Mouse,  she  did  not 
follow  him.  She  heard  the  words  he  uttered  and  under 
stood  their  literal  import,  but  she  was  not  with  him  in  his 
despair  and  his  delight.  She  could  not  get  out  of  herself. 
She  was  not  interested  in  selling  stories  to  magazines. 
What  was  important  to  her  was  matrimony.  She  was 
not  aware  of  it,  however,  any  more  than  she  was  aware 
that  her  desire  that  Martin  take  a  position  was  the  in 
stinctive  and  preparative  impulse  of  motherhood.  She 
would  have  blushed  had  she  been  told  as  much  in  plain, 
set  terms,  and  next,  she  might  have  grown  indignant  and 
asserted  that  her  sole  interest  lay  in  the  man  she  loved 
and  her  desire  for  him  to  make  the  best  of  himself.  So, 
while  Martin  poured  out  his  heart  to  her,  elated  with  the 
first  success  his  chosen  work  in  the  world  had  received, 
she  paid  heed  to  his  bare  words  only,  gazing  now  and 
again  about  the  room,  shocked  by  what  she  saw. 

For  the  first  time  Ruth  gazed  upon  the  sordid  face  of 
poverty.  Starving  lovers  had  always  seemed  romantic 
to  her,  but  she  had  had  no  idea  how  starving  lovers  lived. 
She  had  never  dreamed  it  could  be  like  this.  Ever  her 
gaze  shifted  from  the  room  to  him  and  back  again.  The 
steamy  smell  of  dirty  clothes,  which  had  entered  with 
her  from  the  kitchen,  was  sickening.  Martin  must  be 
soaked  with  it,  Ruth  concluded,  if  that  awful  woman 
washed  frequently.  Such  was  the  contagiousness  of  deg 
radation.  When  she  looked  at  Martin,  she  seemed  to 


224  MARTIN  EDEN 

see  the  smirch  left  upon  him  by  his  surroundings.  She 
had  never  seen  him  unshaven,  and  the  three  days'  growth 
of  beard  on  his  face  was  repulsive  to  her.  Not  alone 
did  it  give  him  the  same  dark  and  murky  aspect  of  the 
Silva  house,  inside  and  out,  but  it  seemed  to  emphasize 
that  animal-like  strength  of  his  which  she  detested.  And 
here  he  was,  being  confirmed  in  his  madness  by  the  two 
acceptances  he  took  such  pride  in  telling  her  about.  A 
little  longer  and  he  would  have  surrendered  and  gone 
to  work.  Now  he  would  continue  on  in  this  horrible 
house,  writing  and  starving  for  a  few  more  months. 

"  What  is  that  smell  ?  "  she  asked  suddenly. 

"  Some  of  Maria's  washing  smells,  I  imagine,"  was  the 
answer.  "  I  am  growing  quite  accustomed  to  them." 

"No,  no;  not  that.  It  is  something  else.  A  stale, 
sickish  smell." 

Martin  sampled  the  air  before  replying. 

"I  can't  smell  anything  else,  except  stale  tobacco  smoke," 
he  announced. 

"  That's  it.  It  is  terrible.  Why  do  you  smoke  so 
much,  Martin?" 

"I  don't  know,  except  that  I  smoke  more  than  usual 
when  I  am  lonely.  And  then,  too,  it's  such  a  long-stand 
ing  habit.  I  learned  when  I  was  only  a  youngster." 

" It  is  not  a  nice  habit,  you  know,"  she  reproved.  "It 
smells  to  heaven." 

"  That's  the  fault  of  the  tobacco.  I  can  afford  only  the 
cheapest.  But  wait  until  I  get  that  forty-dollar  check. 
I'll  use  a  brand  that  is  not  offensive  even  to  the  angels. 
But  that  wasn't  so  bad,  was  it,  two  acceptances  in  three 
days?  That  forty-five  dollars  will  pay  about  all  my 
debts." 

"  For  two  years'  work  ? "  she  queried. 

"  No,  for  less  than  a  week's  work.  Please  pass  me  that 
book  over  on  the  far  corner  of  the  table,  the  account 
book  with  the  gray  cover."  He  opened  it  and  began 
turning  over  the  pages  rapidly.  "  Yes,  I  was  right. 
Four  days  for  *  The  Ring  of  Bells,'  two  days  for  '  The 
Whirlpool.*  That's  forty-five  dollars  for  a  week's  work, 


MARTIN  EDEN  225 

one  hundred  and  eighty  dollars  a  month.  That  beats 
any  salary  I  can  command.  And,  besides,  I'm  just  begin 
ning.  A  thousand  dollars  a  month  is  not  too  much  to 
buy  for  you  all  I  want  you  to  have.  A  salary  of  five 
hundred  a  month  would  be  too  small.  That  forty-five 
dollars  is  just  a  starter.  Wait  till  I  get  my  stride. 
Then  watch  my  smoke." 

Ruth  misunderstood  his  slang,  and  reverted  to  ciga 
rettes. 

"  You  smoke  more  than  enough  as  it  is,  and  the  brand 
of  tobacco  will  make  no  difference.  It  is  the  smoking 
itself  that  is  not  nice,  no  matter  what  the  brand  may  be. 
You  are  a  chimney,  a  living  volcano,  a  perambulating 
smoke-stack,  and  you  are  a  perfect  disgrace,  Martin  dear, 
you  know  you  are." 

She  leaned  toward  him,  entreaty  in  her  eyes,  and  as  he 
looked  at  her  delicate  face  and  into  her  pure,  limpid  eyes, 
as  of  old  he  was  struck  with  his  own  unworthiness. 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  smoke  any  more,"  she  whispered. 
"  Please,  for  —  my  sake." 

"  All  right,  I  won't,"  he  cried.  "  I'll  do  anything  you 
ask,  dear  love,  anything;  you  know  that." 

A  great  temptation  assailed  her.  In  an  insistent  way 
she  had  caught  glimpses  of  the  large,  easy-going  side  of 
his  nature,  and  she  felt  sure,  if  she  asked  him  to  cease 
attempting  to  write,  that  he  would  grant  her  wish.  In 
the  swift  instant  that  elapsed,  the  words  trembled  on  her 
lips.  But  she  did  not  utter  them.  She  was  not  quite 
brave  enough;  she  did  not  quite  dare.  Instead,  she  leaned 
toward  him  to  meet  him,  and  in  his  arms  murmured  :  — 

"  You  know,  it  is  really  not  for  my  sake,  Martin,  but 
for  your  own.  I  am  sure  smoking  hurts  you ;  and  be 
sides,  it  is  not  good  to  be  a  slave  to  anything,  to  a  drug 
least  of  all." 

"  I  shall  always  be  your  slave,"  he  smiled. 

"  In  which  case,  I  shall  begin  issuing  my  commands." 

She  looked  at  him  mischievously,  though  deep  down  she 
was  already  regretting  that  she  had  not  preferred  her 
largest  request. 


226  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  I  live  but  to  obey,  your  majesty.** 

"  Well,  then,  my  first  commandment  is,  Thou  shalt  not 
©mit  to  shave  every  day.  Look  how  you  have  scratched 
my  cheek." 

And  so  it  ended  in  caresses  and  love-laughter.  But 
she  had  made  one  point,  and  she  could  not  expect  to  make 
more  than  one  at  a  time.  She  felt  a  woman's  pride  in  that 
she  had  made  him  stop  smoking.  Another  time  she  would 
persuade  him  to  take  a  position,  for  had  he  not  said  he 
would  do  anything  she  asked? 

She  left  his  side  to  explore  the  room,  examining  the 
clothes-lines  of  notes  overhead,  learning  the  mystery  of 
the  tackle  used  for  suspending  his  wheel  under  the  ceiling, 
and  being  saddened  by  the  heap  of  manuscripts  under  the 
table  which  represented  to  her  just  so  much  wasted  time. 
The  oil-stove  won  her  admiration,  but  on  investigating  the 
food  shelves  she  found  them  empty. 

"  Why,  you  haven't  anything  to  eat,  you  poor  dear,"  she 
said  with  tender  compassion.  "  You  must  be  starving." 

"I  store  my  food  in  Maria's  safe  and  in  her  pantry," 
he  lied.  "  It  keeps  better  there.  No  danger  of  my  starv 
ing.  Look  at  that." 

She  had  come  back  to  his  side,  and  she  saw  him  double 
his  arm  at  the  elbow,  the  biceps  crawling  under  his  shirt 
sleeve  and  swelling  into  a  knot  of  muscle,  heavy  and  hard. 
The  sight  repelled  her.  Sentimentally,  she  disliked  it. 
But  her  pulse,  her  blood,  every  fibre  of  her,  loved  it  and 
yearned  for  it,  and,  in  the  old,  inexplicable  way,  she  leaned 
toward  him,  not  away  from  him.  And  in  the  moment 
that  followed,  when  he  crushed  her  in  his  arms,  the  brain 
of  her,  concerned  with  the  superficial  aspects  of  life, 
was  in  revolt;  while  the  heart  of  her,  the  woman  of 
her,  concerned  with  life  itself,  exulted  triumphantly 
It  was  in  moments  like  this  that  she  felt  to  the  utter- 
most  the  greatness  of  her  love  for  Martin,  for  it  was 
almost  a  swoon  of  delight  to  her  to  feel  his  strong 
arms  about  her,  holding  her  tightly,  hurting  her  with 
the  grip  of  their  fervor.  At  such  moments  she  found 
justification  for  her  treason  to  her  standards,  for  her  viola- 


MARTIN  EDEN  227 

tion  of  her  own  high  ideals,  and,  most  of  all,  for  her  tacit 
disobedience  to  her  mother  and  father.  They  did  not 
want  her  to  marry  this  man.  It  shocked  them  that  she 
should  love  him.  It  shocked  her,  too,  sometimes,  when 
she  was  apart  from  him,  a  cool  and  reasoning  creature. 
With  him,  she  loved  him  —  in  truth,  at  times  a  vexed  and 
worried  love;  but  love  it  was,  a  love  that  was  stronger 
than  she. 

"  This  La  Grippe  is  nothing,"  he  was  saying.  "  It  hurts 
a  bit,  and  gives  one  a  nasty  headache,  but  it  doesn't  com 
pare  with  break-bone  fever." 

"  Have  you  had  that,  too?  "she  queried  absently,  intent 
on  the  heaven-sent  justification  she  was  finding  in  his  arms. 

And  so,  with  absent  queries,  she  led  him  on,  till  sud 
denly  his  words  startled  her. 

He  had  had  the  fever  in  a  secret  colony  of  thirty  lepers 
on  one  of  the  Hawaiian  Islands. 

"  But  why  did  you  go  there?  "  she  demanded. 

Such  royal  carelessness  of  body  seemed  criminal. 

"Because  I  didn't  know,"  he  answered.  "I  never 
dreamed  of  lepers.  When  I  deserted  the  schooner  and 
landed  on  the  beach,  I  headed  inland  for  some  place  of 
hiding.  For  three  days  I  lived  off  guavas,  ohia-apples, 
and  bananas,  all  of  which  grew  wild  in  the  jungle.  On 
the  fourth  day  I  found  the  trail  —  a  mere  foot-trail.  It 
led  inland,  and  it  led  up.  It  was  the  way  I  wanted  to  go, 
and  it  showed  signs  of  recent  travel.  At  one  place  it  ran 
along  the  crest  of  a  ridge  that  was  no  more  than  a  knife- 
edge.  The  trail  wasn't  three  feet  wide  on  the  crest,  and 
on  either  side  the  ridge  fell  away  in  precipices  hundreds  of 
feet  deep.  One  man,  with  plenty  of  ammunition,  could 
have  held  it  against  a  hundred  thousand. 

"  It  was  the  only  way  in  to  the  hiding-place.  Three 
hours  after  I  found  the  trail  I  was  there,  in  a  little  moun 
tain  valley,  a  pocket  in  the  midst  of  lava  peaks.  The 
whole  place  was  terraced  for  taro-patches,  fruit  trees  grew 
there,  and  there  were  eight  or  ten  grass  huts.  But  as  soon 
as  I  saw  the  inhabitants  I  knew  what  I'd  struck.  One 
sight  of  them  was  enough." 


228  MARTIN  EDEN 

"What  did  you  do?"  Ruth  demanded  breathlessly 
listening,  like  any  Desdemona,  appalled  and  fascinated. 

"  Nothing  for  me  to  do.  Their  leader  was  a  kind  old 
fellow,  pretty  far  gone,  but  he  ruled  like  a  king.  He  had 
discovered  the  little  valley  and  founded  the  settlement  — 
all  of  which  was  against  the  law.  But  he  had  guns,  plenty 
of  ammunition,  and  those  Kanakas,  trained  to  the  shooting 
of  wild  cattle  and  wild  pig,  were  dead  shots.  No,  there 
wasn't  any  running  away  for  Martin  Eden.  He  stayed  — 
for  three  months." 

"  But  how  did  you  escape  ?  " 

"I'd  have  been  there  yet,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  a  girl 
there,  a  half-Chinese,  quarter- white,  and  quarter-Hawaiian. 
She  was  a  beauty,  poor  thing,  and  well  educated.  Her 
mother,  in  Honolulu,  was  worth  a  million  or  so.  Well, 
this  girl  got  me  away  at  last.  Her  mother  financed  the 
settlement,  you  see,  so  the  girl  wasn't  afraid  of  being  pun 
ished  for  letting  me  go.  But  she  made  me  swear,  first, 
never  to  reveal  the  hiding-place ;  and  I  never  have.  This 
is  the  first  time  I  have  even  mentioned  it.  The  girl 
had  just  the  first  signs  of  leprosy.  The  fingers  of  her 
right  hand  were  slightly  twisted,  and  there  was  a  small 
spot  on  her  arm.  That  was  all.  I  guess  she  is  dead, 
now." 

"  But  weren't  you  frightened  ?  And  weren't  you  glad 
to  get  away  without  catching  that  dreadful  disease  ?  " 

"  Well,"  he  confessed,  "  I  was  a  bit  shivery  at  first ;  but  I 
got  used  to  it.  I  used  to  feel  sorry  for  that  poor  girl,  though. 
That  made  me  forget  to  be  afraid.  She  was  such  a  beauty, 
in  spirit  as  well  as  in  appearance,  and  she  was  only  slightly 
touched;  yet  she  was  doomed  to  lie  there,  living  the  life 
of  a  primitive  savage  and  rotting  slowly  away.  Leprosy 
is  far  more  terrible  than  you  can  imagine  it." 

"  Poor  thing,"  Ruth  murmured  softly.  "  It's  a  wonder 
she  let  you  get  away." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  "  Martin  asked  unwittingly. 

"  Because  she  must  have  loved  you,"  Ruth  said,  still 
softly.  "  Candidly,  now,  didn't  she  ?  " 

Martin's  sunburn  had  been  bleached  by  his  work  in  the 


MARTIN  EDEN  229 

laundry  and  by  the  indoor  life  he  was  living,  while  the 
hunger  and  the  sickness  had  made  his  face  even  pale ;  and 
across  this  pallor  flowed  the  slow  wave  of  a  blush.  He 
was  opening  his  mouth  to  speak,  but  Ruth  shut  him  off. 

"  Never  mind,  don't  answer  ;  it's  not  necessary/'  she 
laughed. 

But  it  seemed  to  him  there  was  something  metallic  in 
her  laughter,  and  that  the  light  in  her  eyes  was  cold.  On 
the  spur  of  the  moment  it  reminded  him  of  a  gale  he  had 
once  experienced  in  the  North  Pacific.  And  for  the  mo 
ment  the  apparition  of  the  gale  rose  before  his  eyes  — 
a  gale  at  night,  with  a  clear  sky  and  under  a  full  moon, 
the  huge  seas  glinting  coldly  in  the  moonlight.  Next,  he 
saw  the  girl  in  the  leper  refuge  and  remembered  it  was  for 
love  of  him  that  she  had  let  him  go. 

"  She  was  noble,"  he  said  simply.    "  She  gave  me  life." 

That  was  all  of  the  incident,  but  he  heard  Ruth  muffle 
a  dry  sob  in  her  throat,  and  noticed  that  she  turned  her 
face  away  to  gaze  out  of  the  window.  When  she  turned 
it  back  to  him,  it  was  composed,  and  there  was  no  hint  of 
the  gale  in  her  eyes. 

"  I'm  such  a  silly,"  she  said  plaintively.  "  But  I  can't 
help  it.  I  do  so  love  you,  Martin,  I  do,  I  do.  I  shall  grow 
more  catholic  in  time,  but  at  present  I  can't  help  being 
jealous  of  those  ghosts  of  the  past,  and  you  know  your 
past  is  full  of  ghosts. 

"  It  must  be,"  she  silenced  his  protest.  "  It  could  not 
be  otherwise.  And  there's  poor  Arthur  motioning  me  to 
come.  He's  tired  waiting.  And  now  good-by,  dear. 

"  There's  some  kind  of  a  mixture,  put  up  by  the  drug 
gists,  that  helps  men  to  stop  the  use  of  tobacco,"  she  called 
back  from  the  door,  "  and  I  am  going  to  send  you  some." 

The  door  closed,  but  opened  again. 

"  I  do,  I  do,"  she  whispered  to  him ;  and  this  time  she 
was  really  gone. 

Maria,  with  worshipful  eyes  that  none  the  less  were 
keen  to  note  the  texture  of  Ruth's  garments  and  the  cut 
of  them  (a  cut  unknown  that  produced  an  effect  mysteri 
ously  beautiful),  saw  her  to  the  carriage.  The  crowd  of 


230  MARTIN  EDEN 

disappointed  urchins  stared  till  the  carriage  disappeaied 
from  view,  then  transferred  their  stare  to  Maria,  who 
had  abruptly  become  the  most  important  person  on  the 
street.  But  it  was  one  of  her  progeny  who  blasted  Maria's 
reputation  by  announcing  that  the  grand  visitors  had  been 
for  her  lodger.  After  that  Maria  dropped  back  into  her 
old  obscurity  and  Martin  began  to  notice  the  respectful 
manner  in  which  he  was  regarded  by  the  small  fry  of  the 
neighborhood.  As  for  Maria,  Martin  rose  in  her  estima 
tion  a  full  hundred  per  cent,  and  had  the  Portuguese 
grocer  witnessed  that  afternoon  carriage-call  he  wouUi 
have  allowed  Martin  an  additional  three-dollars-awl- 
eighty-five-cents'  worth  of  credit. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  sun  of  Martin's  good  fortune  rose.  The  day  after 
Ruth's  visit,  he  received  a  check  for  three  dollars  from  a 
New  York  scandal  weekly  in  payment  for  three  of  his 
triolets.  Two  days  later  a  newspaper  published  in  Chicago 
accepted  his  "  Treasure  Hunters,"  promising  to  pay  ten 
dollars  for  it  on  publication.  The  price  was  small,  but  it 
was  the  first  article  he  had  written,  his  very  first  attempt 
to  express  his  thought  on  the  printed  page.  To  cap  every 
thing,  the  adventure  serial  for  boys,  his  second  attempt, 
was  accepted  before  the  end  of  the  week  by  a  juvenile 
monthly  calling  itself  Youth  and  Age.  It  was  true  the  se 
rial  was  twenty-one  thousand  words,  and  they  offered  to  pay 
him  sixteen  dollars  on  publication,  which  was  something 
like  seventy-five  cents  a  thousand  words;  but  it  was  equally 
true  that  it  was  the  second  thing  he  had  attempted  to 
write  and  that  he  was  himself  thoroughly  aware  of  its 
clumsy  worthlessness. 

But  even  his  earliest  efforts  were  not  marked  with  the 
clumsiness  of  mediocrity.  What  characterized  them  was 
the  clumsiness  of  too  great  strength  —  the  clumsiness 
which  the  tyro  betrays  when  he  crushes  butterflies  with 
battering  rams  and  hammers  out  vignettes  with  a  war- 
club.  So  it  was  that  Martin  was  glad  to  sell  his  early 
efforts  for  songs.  He  knew  them  for  what  they  were,  and 
it  had  not  taken  him  long  to  acquire  this  knowledge. 
What  he  pinned  his  faith  to  was  his  later  work.  He  had 
striven  to  be  something  more  than  a  mere  writer  of  maga 
zine  fiction.  He  had  sought  to  equip  himself  with  the 
tools  of  artistry.  On  the  other  hand,  he  had  not  sacrificed 
strength.  His  conscious  aim  had  been  to  increase  his 
strength  by  avoiding  excess  of  strength.  Nor  had  he 

231 


232  MARTIN  EDEN 

departed  from  his  love  of  reality.  His  work  was  realism, 
though  he  had  endeavored  to  fuse  with  it  the  fancies  and 
beauties  of  imagination.  What  he  sought  was  an  impas 
sioned  realism,  shot  through  with  human  aspiration  and 
faith.  What  he  wanted  was  life  as  it  was,  with  all  its 
spirit-groping  and  soul-reaching  left  in. 

He  had  discovered,  in  the  course  of  his  reading,  two 
schools  of  fiction.  One  treated  of  man  as  a  god,  ignoring 
his  earthly  origin;  the  other  treated  of  man  as  a  clod, 
ignoring  his  heaven-sent  dreams  and  divine  possibilities. 
Both  the  god  and  the  clod  schools  erred,  in  Martin's  es 
timation,  and  erred  through  too  great  singleness  of  sight 
and  purpose.  There  was  a  compromise  that  approximated 
the  truth,  though  it  flattered  not  the  school  of  god,  while 
it  challenged  the  brute-savageness  of  the  school  of  clod. 
It  was  his  story,  "  Adventure,"  which  had  dragged  with 
Ruth,  that  Martin  believed  had  achieved  his  ideal  of  the 
true  in  fiction;  and  it  was  in  an  essay,  "God  and  Clod," 
that  he  had  expressed  his  views  on  the  whole  general  sub 
ject. 

But  "  Adventure,"  and  all  that  he  deemed  his  best 
work,  still  went  begging  among  the  editors.  His  early 
work  counted  for  nothing  in  his  eyes  except  for  the 
money  it  brought,  and  his  horror  stories,  two  of  which  he 
had  sold,  he  did  not  consider  high  work  nor  his  best 
work.  To  him  they  were  frankly  imaginative  and  fan 
tastic,  though  invested  with  all  the  glamour  of  the  real, 
wherein  lay  their  power.  This  investiture  of  the  gro 
tesque  and  impossible  with  reality,  he  looked  upon  as  a 
trick  —  a  skilful  trick  at  best.  Great  literature  could  not 
reside  in  such  a  field.  Their  artistry  was  high,  but  he  de 
nied  the  worthwhileness  of  artistry  when  divorced  from 
humanness.  The  trick  had  been  to  fling  over  the  face  of 
his  artistry  a  mask  of  humanness,  and  this  he  had  done  in 
the  half-dozen  or  so  stories  of  the  horror  brand  he  had 
written  before  he  emerged  upon  the  high  peaks  of  "  Ad 
venture,"  "Joy,"  "The  Pot,"  and  "  The  Wine  of  Life." 

The  three  dollars  he  received  for  the  triolets  he  used  to 
eke  out  a  precarious  existence  against  the  arrival  of  the 


MARTIN  EDEN  233 

White  Mouse  check.  He  cashed  the  first  check  with 
the  suspicious  Portuguese  grocer,  paying  a  dollar  on 
account  and  dividing  the  remaining  two  dollars  between 
the  baker  and  the  fruit  store.  Martin  was  not  yet  rich 
enough  to  afford  meat,  and  he  was  on  slim  allowance 
when  the  White  Mouse  check  arrived.  He  was  divided 
on  the  cas1  ing  of  it.  He  had  never  been  in  a  bank  in 
his  life,  mnoh  less  been  in  one  on  business,  and  he  had  a 
naive  and  childlike  desire  to  walk  into  one  of  the  big 
banks  down  in  Oakland  and  fling  down  his  indorsed 
check  for  forty  dollars.  On  the  other  hand,  practical 
common  sense  ruled  that  he  should  cash  it  with  his  grocer 
and  thereby  make  an  impression  that  would  later  result  in 
an  increase  of  credit.  Reluctantly  Martin  yielded  to  the 
claims  of  the  grocer,  paying  his  bill  with  him  in  full,  and 
receiving  in  change  a  pocketful  of  jingling  coin.  Also, 
he  paid  the  other  tradesmen  in  full,  redeemed  his  suit  and 
his  bicycle,  paid  one  month's  rent  on  the  type-writer,  and 
paid  Maria  the  overdue  month  for  his  room  and  a  month 
in  advance.  This  left  him  in  his  pocket,  for  emergencies, 
a  balance  of  nearly  three  dollars. 

In  itself,  this  small  sum  seemed  a  fortune.  Immedi 
ately  on  recovering  his  clothes  he  had  gone  to  see  Ruth, 
and  on  the  way  he  could  not  refrain  from  jingling  the 
little  handful  of  silver  in  his  pocket.  He  had  been  so 
long  without  money  that,  like  a  rescued  starving  man 
who  cannot  let  the  unconsumed  food  out  of  his  sight, 
Martin  could  not  keep  his  hand  off  the  silver.  He  was 
not  mean,  nor  avaricious,  but  the  money  meant  more  than 
so  many  dollars  and  cents.  It  stood  for  success,  and  the 
eagles  stamped  upon  the  coins  were  to  him  so  many 
winged  victories. 

It  came  to  him  insensibly  that  it  was  a  very  good 
world.  It  certainly  appeared  more  beautiful  to  him. 
For  weeks  it  had  been  a  very  dull  and  sombre  world  ; 
but  now,  with  nearly  all  debts  paid,  three  dollars  jingling 
in  his  pocket,  and  in  his  mind  the  consciousness  of  success, 
the  sun  shone  bright  and  warm,  and  even  a  rain-squall 
that  soaked  unprepared  pedestrians  seemed  a  merry  hap- 


234  MARTIN  EDEN 

pening  to  him.  When  he  starved,  his  thoughts  had 
dwelt  often  upon  the  thousands  he  knew  were  starving 
the  world  over  ;  but  now  that  he  was  feasted  full,  the  fact 
of  the  thousands  starving  was  no  longer  pregnant  in  his 
brain.  He.  forgot  about  them,  and,  being  in  love,  re 
membered  the  countless  lovers  in  the  world.  Without 
deliberately  thinking  about  it,  motifs  for  love-lyrics  began 
to  agitate  his  brain.  Swept  away  by  the  creative  impulse, 
he  got  off  the  electric  car,  without  vexation,  two  blocks 
beyond  his  crossing. 

He  found  a  number  of  persons  in  the  Morse  home. 
Ruth's  two  girl-cousins  were  visiting  her  from  San  Rafael, 
and  Mrs.  Morse,  under  pretext  of  entertaining  them,  was 
pursuing  her  plan  of  surrounding  Ruth  with  young 
people.  The  campaign  had  begun  during  Martin's  en 
forced  absence,  and  was  already  in  full  swing.  She  was 
making  a  point  of  having  at  the  house  men  who  were  do 
ing  things.  Thus,  in  addition  to  the  cousins  Dorothy 
and  Florence,  Martin  encountered  two  university  pro 
fessors,  one  of  Latin,  the  other  of  English;  a  young  army 
officer  just  back  from  the  Philippines,  one-time  school 
mate  of  Ruth's ;  a  young  fellow  named  Melville,  private 
secretary  to  Joseph  Perkins,  head  of  the  San  Francisco 
Trust  Company;  and  finally  of  the  men,  a  live  bank 
cashier,  Charles  Hapgood,  a  youngish  man  of  thirty- five, 
graduate  of  Stanford  University,  member  of  the  Nile  Club 
and  the  Unity  Club,  and  a  conservative  speaker  for  the 
Republican  Party  during  campaigns  —  in  short,  a  rising 
young  man  in  every  way.  Among  the  women  was  one 
who  painted  portraits,  another  who  was  a  professional 
musician,  and  still  another  who  possessed  the  degree  of 
Doctor  of  Sociology  and  who  was  locally  famous  for  her 
social  settlement  work  in  the  slums  of  San  Francisco. 
But  the  women  did  not  count  for  much  in  Mrs.  Morse's 
plan.  At  the  best,  they  were  necessary  accessories.  The 
men  who  did  things  must  be  drawn  to  the  house  some 
how. 

"  Don't  get  excited  when  you  talk,"  Ruth  admonished 
Martin,  before  the  ordeal  of  introduction  began. 


MARTIN  EDEN  235 

He  bore  himself  a  bit  stiffly  at  first,  oppressed  by  a 
sense  of  his  own  awkwardness,  especially  of  his  shoulders, 
which  were  up  to  their  old  trick  of  threatening  destruction 
to  furniture  and  ornaments.  Also,  he  was  rendered  self- 
conscious  by  the  company.  He  had  never  before  been 
in  contact  with  such  exalted  beings  nor  with  so  many  of 
them.  Melville,  the  bank  cashier,  fascinated  him,  and  he 
resolved  to  investigate  him  at  the  first  opportunity.  For 
underneath  Martin's  awe  lurked  his  assertive  ego,  and 
he  felt  the  urge  to  measure  himself  with  these  men  and 
women  and  to  find  out  what  they  had  learned  from  the 
books  and  life  which  he  had  not  learned. 

Ruth's  eyes  roved  to  him  frequently  to  see  how  he  was 
getting  on,  and  she  was  surprised  and  gladdened  by  the 
ease  with  which  he  got  acquainted  with  her  cousins.  He 
certainly  did  not  grow  excited,  while  being  seated  re 
moved  from  him  the  worry  of  his  shoulders.  Ruth  knew 
them  for  clever  girls,  superficially  brilliant,  and  she  could 
scarcely  understand  their  praise  of  Martin  later  that  night 
at  going  to  bed.  But  he,  on  the  other  hand,  a  wit  in  his 
own  class,  a  gay  quizzer  and  laughter-maker  at  dances 
and  Sunday  picnics,  had  found  the  making  of  fun  and  the 
breaking  of  good-natured  lances  simple  enough  in  this 
environment.  And  on  this  evening  success  stood  at  his 
back,  patting  him  on  the  shoulder  and  telling  him  that  he 
was  making  good,  so  that  he  could  afford  to  laugh  and 
make  laughter  and  remain  unabashed. 

Later,  Ruth's  anxiety  found  justification.  Martin  and 
Professor  Caldwell  had  got  together  in  a  conspicuous 
corner,  and  though  Martin  no  longer  wove  the  air  with 
his  hands,  to  Ruth's  critical  eye  he  permitted  his  own 
eyes  to  flash  and  glitter  too  frequently,  talked  too  rapidly 
and  warmly,  grew  too  intense,  and  allowed  his  aroused 
blood  to  redden  his  cheeks  too  much.  He  lacked  decorum 
and  control,  and  was  in  decided  contrast  to  the  young 
professor  of  English  with  whom  he  talked. 

But  Martin  was  not  concerned  with  appearances  I  He 
had  been  swift  to  note  the  other's  trained  mind  and  to 
appreciate  his  command  of  knowledge.  Furthermore, 


236  MARTIN  EDEN 

Professor  Caldwell  did  not  realize  Martin's  concept  of  the 
average  English  professor.  Martin  wanted  him  to  talk 
shop,  and,  though  he  seemed  averse  at  first,  succeeded  in 
making  him  do  it.  For  Martin  did  not  see  why  a  man 
should  not  talk  shop. 

"It's  absurd  and  unfair,"  he  had  told  Ruth  weeks 
before,  "  this  objection  to  talking  shop.  For  what  reason 
under  the  sun  do  men  and  women  come  together  if  not 
for  the  exchange  of  the  best  that  is  in  them  ?  And  the 
best  that  is  in  them  is  what  they  are  interested  in,  the 
thing  by  which  they  make  their  living,  the  thing  they've 
specialized  on  and  sat  up  days  and  nights  over,  and  even 
dreamed  about.  Imagine  Mr.  Butler  living  up  to  social 
etiquette  and  enunciating  his  views  on  Paul  Verlaine  or 
the  German  drama  or  the  novels  of  D'Annunzio.  We'd 
be  bored  to  death.  I,  for  one,  if  I  must  listen  to  Mr. 
Butler,  prefer  to  hear  him  talk  about  his  law.  It's  the 
best  that  is  in  him,  and  life  is  so  short  that  I  want  the 
best  of  every  man  and  woman  I  meet." 

"  But,"  Ruth  had  objected,  "  there  are  the  topics  of 
general  interest  to  all." 

"  There,  you  mistake,"  he  had  rushed  on.  "  All  persons 
in  society,  all  cliques  in  society  —  or,  rather,  nearly  all 
persons  and  cliques  —  ape  their  betters.  Now,  who  are 
the  best  betters  ?  The  idlers,  the  wealthy  idlers.  They 
do  not  know,  as  a  rule,  the  things  known  by  the  persons 
who  are  doing  something  in  the  world.  To  listen  to  con 
versation  about  such  things  would  mean  to  be  bored, 
wherefore  the  idlers  decree  that  such  things  are  shop  and 
must  not  be  talked  about.  Likewise  they  decree  the 
things  that  are  not  shop  and  which  may  be  talked  about, 
and  those  things  are  the  latest  operas,  latest  novels,  cards, 
billiards,  cocktails,  automobiles,  horse  shows,  trout  fishing, 
tuna-fishing,  big-game  shooting,  yacht  sailing,  and  so  forth 
—  and  mark  you,  these  are  the  things  the  idlers  know. 
In  all  truth,  they  constitute  the  shop-talk  of  the  idlers. 
And  the  funniest  part  of  it  is  that  many  of  the  clever 
people,  and  all  the  would-be  clever  people,  allow  the  idlers 
so  to  impose  upon  them.  As  for  me,  I  want  the  best  a 


MARTIN  EDEN  237 

man's  got  in  him,  call  it  shop  vulgarity  or  anything  you 
please." 

And  Ruth  had  not  understood.  This  attack  of  his  on 
the  established  had  seemed  to  her  just  so  much  wilf  ulness 
of  opinion. 

So  Martin  contaminated  Professor  Caldwell  with  his 
own  earnestness,  challenging  him  to  speak  his  mind.  As 
Ruth  paused  beside  them  she  heard  Martin  saying  :  — 

"  You  surely  don't  pronounce  such  heresies  in  the  Uni 
versity  of  California  ?  " 

Professor  Caldwell  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "The 
honest  taxpayer  and  the  politician,  you  know.  Sacra 
mento  gives  us  our  appropriations  and  therefore  we  kowtow 
to  Sacramento,  and  to  the  Board  of  Regents,  and  to  the 
party  press,  or  to  the  press  of  both  parties." 

"Yes,  that's  clear  ;  but  how  about  you  ?  "  Martin  urged. 
"  You  must  be  a  fish  out  of  the  water." 

"  Few  like  me,  I  imagine,  in  the  university  pond.  Some 
times  I  am  fairly  sure  I  am  out  of  water,  and  that  I  should 
belong  in  Paris,  in  Grub  Street,  in  a  hermit's  cave,  or  in 
some  sadly  wild  Bohemian  crowd,  drinking  claret,  —  dago- 
red  they  call  it  in  San  Francisco, — dining  in  cheap  restau 
rants  in  the  Latin  Quarter,  and  expressing  vociferously 
radical  views  upon  all  creation.  Really,  I  am  frequently 
almost  sure  that  I  was  cut  out  to  be  a  radical.  But  then, 
there  are  so  many  questions  on  which  I  am  not  sure.  I 
grow  timid  when  I  am  face  to  face  with  my  human  frailty, 
which  ever  prevents  me  from  grasping  all  the  factors  in 
any  problem  —  human,  vital  problems,  you  know." 

And  as  he  talked  on,  Martin  became  aware  that  to  his 
own  lips  had  come  the  "  Song  of  the  Trade  Wind  "  :  — 

"  I  am  strongest  at  noon, 
But  under  the  moon 
I  stiffen  the  bunt  of  the  sail." 

He  was  almost  humming  the  words,  and  it  dawned  upon 
him  that  the  other  reminded  him  of  the  trade  wind,  of  the 
Northeast  Trade,  steady,  and  cool,  and  strong.  He  was 
equable,  he  was  to  be  relied  upon,  and  withal  there  was  a 


238  MARTIN  EDEN 

certain  bafflement  about  him.  Martin  had  the  feeling 
that  he  never  spoke  his  full  mind,  just  as  he  had  often 
had  the  feeling  that  the  trades  never  blew  their  strongest 
but  always  held  reserves  of  strength  that  were  never  used. 
Martin's  trick  of  visioning  was  active  as  ever.  His  brain 
was  a  most  accessible  storehouse  of  remembered  fact  and 
fancy,  and  its  contents  seemed  ever  ordered  and  spread 
for  his  inspection.  Whatever  occurred  in  the  instant 
present,  Martin's  mind  immediately  presented  associated 
antithesis  or  similitude  which  ordinarily  expressed  them 
selves  to  him  in  vision.  It  was  sheerly  automatic,  and 
his  visioning  was  an  unfailing  accompaniment  to  the  living 
present.  Just  as  Ruth's  face,  in  a  momentary  jealousy, 
had  called  before  his  eyes  a  forgotten  moonlight  gale,  and 
as  Professor  Caldwell  made  him  see  again  the  Northeast 
Trade  herding  the  white  billows  across  the  purple  sea,  so, 
from  moment  to  moment,  not  disconcerting  but  rather 
identifying  and  classifying,  new  memory-visions  rose  before 
him,  or  spread  under  his  eyelids,  or  were  thrown  upon  the 
screen  of  his  consciousness.  These  visions  came  out  of 
the  actions  and  sensations  of  the  past,  out  of  things  and 
events  and  books  of  yesterday  and  last  week  —  a  count 
less  host  of  apparitions  that,  waking  or  sleeping,  forever 
thronged  his  mind. 

So  it  was,  as  he  listened  to  Professor  Caldwell's  easy 
flow  of  speech  —  the  conversation  of  a  clever,  cultured 
man  —  that  Martin  kept  seeing  himself  down  all  his  past. 
He  saw  himself  when  he  had  been  quite  the  hoodlum, 
wearing  a  "  stiff-rim  "  Stetson  hat  and  a  square-cut,  double- 
breasted  coat,  with  a  certain  swagger  to  the  shoulders  and 
possessing  the  ideal  of  being  as  tough  as  the  police  per 
mitted.  He  did  not  disguise  it  to  himself,  nor  attempt  to 
palliate  it.  At  one  time  in  his  life  he  had  been  just  a 
common  hoodlum,  the  leader  of  a  gang  that  worried  the 
police  and  terrorized  honest,  working-class  householders. 
But  his  ideals  had  changed.  He  glanced  about  him  at 
the  well-bred,  well-dressed  men  and  women,  and  breathed 
into  his  lungs  the  atmosphere  of  culture  and  refinement, 
and  at  the  same  moment  the  ghost  of  his  early  youth,  in 


MARTIN  EDEN  239 

stiff-rim  and  square-cut,  with  swagger  and  toughness, 
stalked  across  the  room.  This  figure,  of  the  corner  hood 
lum,  he  saw  merge  into  himself,  sitting  and  talking  with 
an  actual  university  professor. 

For,  after  all,  he  had  never  found  his  permanent  abiding 
place.  He  had  fitted  in  wherever  he  found  himself,  been 
a  favorite  always  and  everywhere  by  virtue  of  holding  his 
own  at  work  and  at  play  and  by  his  willingness  and  abil 
ity  to  fight  for  his  rights  and  command  respect.  But  he 
had  never  taken  root.  He  had  fitted  in  sufficiently  to 
satisfy  his  fellows  but  not  to  satisfy  himself.  He  had  been 
perturbed  always  by  a  feeling  of  unrest,  had  heard  always 
the  call  of  something  from  beyond,  and  had  wandered  on 
through  life  seeking  it  until  he  found  books  and  art  and 
love.  And  here  he  was,  in  the  midst  of  all  this,  the  only 
one  of  all  the  comrades  he  had  adventured  with  who 
could  have  made  themselves  eligible  for  the  inside  of  the 
Morse  home. 

But  such  thoughts  and  visions  did  not  prevent  him 
from  following  Professor  Caldwell  closely.  And  as  he 
followed,  comprehendingly  and  critically,  he  noted  the  un 
broken  field  of  the  other's  knowledge.  As  for  himself, 
from  moment  to  moment  the  conversation  showed  him 
gaps  and  open  stretches,  whole  subjects  with  which  hte 
was  unfamiliar.  Nevertheless,  thanks  to  his  Spencer,  he 
saw  that  he  possessed  the  outlines  of  the  field  of  knowledge. 
It  was  a  matter  only  of  time,  when  he  would  fill  in  the 
outline.  Then  watch  out,  he  thought  —  'ware  shoal,  every 
body!  He  felt  like  sitting  at  the  feet  of  the  professor, 
worshipful  and  absorbent;  but,  as  he  listened,  he  began 
to  discern  a  weakness  in  the  other's  judgments  —  a  weak 
ness  so  stray  and  elusive  that  he  might  not  have  caught 
it  had  it  not  been  ever  present.  And  when  he  did  catch 
it,  he  leapt  to  equality  at  once. 

Ruth  came  up  to  them  a  second  time,  just  as  Martin 
began  to  speak. 

"I'll  tell  you  where  you  are  wrong,  or,  rather,  what 
weakens  your  judgments,"  he  said.  "  You  lack  biology. 
It  has  no  place  in  your  scheme  of  things.  —  Oh,  I  meaa 


240  MARTIN  EDEN 

the  real  interpretative  biology,  from  the  ground  up,  from 
the  laboratory  and  the  test-tube  and  the  vitalized  inorganic 
right  on  up  to  the  widest  aesthetic  and  sociological  gen 
eralizations." 

Ruth  was  appalled.  She  had  sat  two  lecture  courses 
under  Professor  Caldwell  and  looked  up  to  him  as  the 
living  repository  of  all  knowledge. 

"  I  scarcely  follow  you,"  he  said  dubiously. 

Martin  was  not  so  sure  but  what  he  had  followed  him. 

"  Then  I'll  try  to  explain,"  he  said.  "  I  remember 
reading  in  Egyptian  history  something  to  the  effect  that 
understanding  could  not  be  had  of  Egyptian  art  without 
first  studying  the  land  question." 

"  Quite  right,"  the  professor  nodded. 

"  And  it  seems  to  me,"  Martin  continued,  "  that  knowl 
edge  of  the  land  question,  in  turn,  of  all  questions,  for 
that  matter,  cannot  be  had  without  previous  knowledge  of 
the  stuff  and  the  constitution  of  life.  How  can  we  un 
derstand  laws  and  institutions,  religions  and  customs, 
without  understanding,  not  merely  the  nature  of  the  crea 
tures  that  made  them,  but  the  nature  of  the  stuff  out  of 
which  the  creatures  are  made  ?  Is  literature  less  human 
than  the  architecture  and  sculpture  of  Egypt  ?  Is  there 
one  thing  in  the  known  universe  that  is  not  subject  to 
the  law  of  evolution  ?  —  Oh,  I  know  there  is  an  elaborate 
evolution  of  the  various  arts  laid  down,  but  it  seems  to  me 
to  be  too  mechanical.  The  human  himself  is  left  out. 
The  evolution  of  the  tool,  of  the  harp,  of  music  and  song 
and  dance,  are  all  beautifully  elaborated  ;  but  how  about 
the  evolution  of  the  human  himself,  the  development  of 
the  basic  and  intrinsic  parts  that  were  in  him  before  he 
made  his  first  tool  or  gibbered  his  first  chant  ?  It  is  that 
which  you  do  not  consider,  and  which  I  call  biology.  It 
is  biology  in  its  largest  aspects. 

"  I  know  I  express  myself  incoherently,  but  I've  tried 
to  hammer  out  the  idea.  It  came  to  me  as  you  were  talk 
ing,  so  I  was  not  primed  and  ready  to  deliver  it.  You 
spoke  yourself  of  the  human  frailty  that  prevented  one 
from  taking  all  the  factors  into  consideration.  And  you, 


MARTIN  EDEN  241 

in  turn,  —  or  so  it  seems  to  me, — leave  out  the  biological 
factor,  the  very  stuff  out  of  which  has  been  spun  the  fab 
ric  of  all  the  arts,  the  warp  and  the  woof  of  all  human 
actions  and  achievements." 

To  Ruth's  amazement,  Martin  was  not  immediately 
crushed,  and  that  the  professor  replied  in  the  way  he 
did  struck  her  as  forbearance  for  Martin's  youth.  Pro 
fessor  Caldwell  sat  for  a  full  minute,  silent  and  fingering 
his  watch  chain. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I've  had  that  same 
criticism  passed  on  me  once  before  —  by  a  very  great 
man,  a  scientist  and  evolutionist,  Joseph  Le  Conte. 
But  he  is  dead,  and  I  thought  to  remain  undetected  ;  and 
now  you  come  along  and  expose  me.  Seriously,  though  — 
and  this  is  confession  —  I  think  there  is  something  in  your 
contention  —  a  great  deal,  in  fact.  I  am  too  classical,  not 
enough  up-to-date  in  the  interpretative  branches  of  science, 
and  I  can  only  plead  the  disadvantages  of  my  education 
and  a  temperamental  slothfulness  that  prevents  me  from 
doing  the  work.  I  wonder  if  you'll  believe  that  I've 
never  been  inside  a  physics  or  chemistry  laboratory  ?  It 
is  true,  nevertheless.  Le  Conte  was  right,  and  so  are 
you,  Mr.  Eden,  at  least  to  an  extent  —  how  much  I  do 
not  know." 

Ruth  drew  Martin  away  with  her  on  a  pretext ;  when 
she  had  got  him  aside,  whispering:  — 

"You  shouldn't  have  monopolized  Professor  Caldwell 
that  way.  There  may  be  others  who  want  to  talk  with 
him." 

"  My  mistake,"  Martin  admitted  contritely.  "  But  I'd 
got  him  stirred  up,  and  he  was  so  interesting  that  I  did 
not  think.  Do  you  know,  he  is  the  brightest,  the  most 
intellectual,  man  I  have  ever  talked  with.  And  I'll  tell 
you  something  else.  I  once  thought  that  everybody  who 
went  to  universities,  or  who  sat  in  the  high  places  in 
society,  was  just  as  brilliant  and  intelligent  as  he. " 

"  He's  an  exception,"  she  answered. 

"  I  should  say  so.  Whom  do  you  want  me  to  talk  to 
now  ?  —  Oh,  say,  bring  me  up  against  that  cashier-fellow.'* 


242  MARTIN  EDEN 

Martin  talked  for  fifteen  minutes  with  him,  nor  could 
Ruth  have  wished  better  behavior  on  her  lover's  part. 
Not  once  did  his  eyes  flash  nor  his  cheeks  flush,  while  the 
calmness  and  poise  with  which  he  talked  surprised  her.  But 
in  Martin's  estimation  the  whole  tribe  of  bank  cashiers  fell 
a  few  hundred  per  cent,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  evening 
he  labored  under  the  impression  that  bank  cashiers  and 
talkers  of  platitudes  were  synonymous  phrases.  The 
army  officer  he  found  good-natured  and  simple,  a  healthy, 
wholesome  young  fellow,  content  to  occupy  the  place  in 
life  into  which  birth  and  luck  had  flung  him.  On  learn 
ing  that  he  had  completed  two  years  in  the  university, 
Martin  was  puzzled  to  know  where  he  had  stored  it  away. 
Nevertheless  Martin  liked  him  better  than  the  platitudi 
nous  bank  cashier. 

"  I  really  don't  object  to  platitudes,"  he  told  Ruth  later; 
"  but  what  worries  me  into  nervousness  is  the  pompous, 
smugly  complacent,  superior  certitude  with  which  they 
are  uttered  and  the  time  taken  to  do  it.  Why,  I  could 
give  that  man  the  whole  history  of  the  Reformation  in 
the  time  he  took  to  tell  me  that  the  Union-Labor  Party 
had  fused  with  the  Democrats.  Do  you  know,  he  skins 
his  words  as  a  professional  poker-player  skins  the  cards 
that  are  dealt  out  to  him.  Some  day  I'll  show  you  what 
I  mean." 

"  I'm  sorry  you  don't  like  him,"  was  her  reply.  "  He'a 
a  favorite  of  Mr.  Butler's.  Mr.  Butler  says  he  is  safe 
and  honest  —  calls  him  the  Rock,  Peter,  and  says  that 
upon  him  any  banking  institution  can  well  be  built." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it  —  from  the  little  I  saw  of  him  and 
the  less  I  heard  from  him  ;  but  I  don't  think  so  much  of 
banks  as  I  did.  You  don't  mind  my  speaking  my  mind 
this  way,  dear  ?  " 

"No,  no;  it  is  most  interesting." 

"  Yes,"  Martin  went  on  heartily,  "  I'm  no  more  than  a 
barbarian  getting  my  first  impressions  of  civilization. 
Such  impressions  must  be  entertainingly  novel  to  the 
civilized  person." 

"  What  did  you  think  of  my  cousins  ?  "  Ruth  queried. 


MARTIN  EDEN  243 

•*  I  liked  them  better  than  the  other  women.  There's 
plenty  of  fun  in  them  along  with  paucity  of  pretence." 

"Then  you  did  like  the  other  women ?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  That  social-settlement  woman  is  no  more  than  a 
sociological  poll-parrot.  I  swear,  if  you  winnowed  her 
out  between  the  stars,  like  Tomlinson,  there  would  be 
found  in  her  not  one  original  thought.  As  for  the  portrait- 
painter,  she  was  a  positive  bore.  She'd  make  a  good  wife 
for  the  cashier.  And  the  musician  woman!  I  don't  care 
how  nimble  her  fingers  are,  how  perfect  her  technique,  how 
wonderful  her  expression — the  fact  is,  she  knows  nothing 
about  music." 

"  She  plays  beautifully,"  Ruth  protested. 

"Yes,  she's  undoubtedly  gymnastic  in  the  externals  of 
music,  but  the  intrinsic  spirit  of  music  is  unguessed  by 
her.  I  asked  her  what  music  meant  to  her  —  you  know 
I'm  always  curious  to  know  that  particular  thing  ;  and 
she  did  not  know  what  it  meant  to  her,  except  that  she 
adored  it,  that  it  was  the  greatest  of  -the  arts,  and  that  it 
meant  more  than  life  to  her." 

"  You  were  making  them  talk  shop,"  Ruth  charged  him. 

"  I  confess  it.  And  if  they  were  failures  on  shop, 
imagine  my  sufferings  if  they  had  discoursed  on  other  sub 
jects.  Why,  I  used  to  think  that  up  here,  where  all  the 
advantages  of  culture  were  enjoyed  — "  He  paused 
for  a  moment,  and  watched  the  youthful  shade  of 
himself,  in  stiff-rim  and  square-cut,  enter  the  door  and 
swagger  across  the  room.  "  As  I  was  saying,  up  here  I 
thought  all  men  and  women  were  brilliant  and  radiant. 
But  now,  from  what  little  I've  seen  of  them,  they  strike  me 
as  a  pack  of  ninnies,  most  of  them,  and  ninety  per  cent  of  the 
remainder  as  bores.  Now  there's  Professor  Caldwell  — 
he's  different.  He's  a  man,  every  inch  of  him  and  every 
atom  of  his  gray  matter." 

Ruth's  face  brightened. 

"  Tell  me  about  him,"  she  urged.  "  Not  what  is  large 
and  brilliant — I  know  those  qualities;  but  whatever  you 
feel  is  adverse.  I  am  most  curious  to  know." 


244  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  Perhaps  I'll  get  myself  in  a  pickle."  Martin  debated 
humorously  for  a  moment.  "  Suppose  you  tell  me  first. 
Or  maybe  you  find  in  him  nothing  less  than  the  best." 

"  I  attended  two  lecture  courses  under  him,  and  I  have 
known  him  for  two  years ;  that  is  why  I  am  anxious  for 
your  first  impression." 

"  Bad  impression,  you  mean  ?  Well,  here  goes.  He  is 
all  the  fine  things  you  think  about  him,  I  guess.  At  least, 
he  is  the  finest  specimen  of  intellectual  man  I  have  met ; 
but  he  is  a  man  with  a  secret  shame. 

"  Oh,  no,  no!"  he  hastened  to  cry.  "  Nothing  paltry  nor 
vulgar.  What  I  mean  is  that  he  strikes  me  as  a  man  who 
has  gone  to  the  bottom  of  things,  and  is  so  afraid  of  what 
he  saw  that  he  makes  believe  to  himself  that  he  never  saw 
it.  Perhaps  that's  not  the  clearest  way  to  express  it. 
Here's  another  way.  A  man  who  has  found  the  path  to 
the  hidden  temple  but  has  not  followed  it ;  who  has,  per 
haps,  caught  glimpses  of  the  temple  and  striven  afterward 
to  convince  himself  that  it  was  only  a  mirage  of  foliage. 
Yet  another  way.  A  man  who  could  have  done  things 
but  who  placed  no  value  on  the  doing,  and  who,  all  the 
time,  in  his  innermost  heart,  is  regretting  that  he  has  not 
done  them  ;  who  has  secretly  laughed  at  the  rewards  for 
doing,  and  yet,  still  more  secretly,  has  yearned  for  the 
rewards  and  for  the  joy  of  doing." 

"  I  don't  read  him  that  way,"  she  said.  "  And  for  that 
matter,  I  don't  see  just  what  you  mean." 

"  It  is  only  a  vague  feeling  on  my  part,"  Martin  tem 
porized.  "  I  have  no  reason  for  it.  It  is  only  a  feeling, 
and  most  likely  it  is  wrong.  You  certainly  should  know 
him  better  than  I." 

From  the  evening  at  Ruth's  Martin  brought  away  with 
him  strange  confusions  and  conflicting  feelings.  He  was 
disappointed  in  his  goal,  in  the  persons  he  had  climbed  to 
be  with.  On  the  other  hand,  he  was  encouraged  with  his 
success.  The  climb  had  been  easier  than  he  expected. 
He  was  superior  to  the  climb,  and  (he  did  not,  with  false 
modesty,  hide  it  from  himself)  he  was  superior  to  the 
beings  among  whom  he  had  climbed  —  with  the  exception. 


MARTIN  EDEN  245 

of  course,  of  Professor  Caldwell.  About  life  and  the 
books  he  knew  more  than  they,  and  he  wondered  into  what 
nooks  and  crannies  they  had  cast  aside  their  educations. 
He  did  not  know  that  he  was  himself  possessed  of  unusual 
brain  vigor;  nor  did  he  know  that  the  persons  who  were 
given  to  probing  the  depths  and  to  thinking  ultimate 
thoughts  were  not  to  be  found  in  the  drawing  rooms  of 
the  world's  Morses  ;  nor  did  he  dream  that  such  persons 
were  as  lonely  eagles  sailing  solitary  in  the  azure  sky  far 
above  the  earth  and  its  swarming  freight  of  gregarious 
life. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

BUT  success  had  lost  Martin's  address,  and  her  messen 
gers  no  longer  came  to  his  door.  For  twenty-five  days, 
working  Sundays  and  holidays,  he  toiled  on  "  The 
Shame  of  the  Sun,"  a  long  essay  of  some  thirty  thousand 
words.  It  was  a  deliberate  attack  on  the  mysticism  of 
the  Maeterlinck  school  —  an  attack  from  the  citadel  of 
positive  science  upon  the  wonder-dreamers,  but  an  at 
tack  nevertheless  that  retained  much  of  beauty  and 
wonder  of  the  sort  compatible  with  ascertained  fact.  It 
was  a  little  later  that  he  followed  up  the  attack  with  two 
short  essays,  "  The*  Wonder-Dreamers  "  and  "  The  Yard 
stick  of  the  Ego."  And  on  essays,  long  and  short,  he 
began  to  pay  the  travelling  expenses  from  magazine  to 
magazine. 

During  the  twenty-five  days  spent  on  "  The  Shame  of 
the  Sun,"  he  sold  hack-work  to  the  extent  of  six  dollars 
and  fifty  cents.  A  joke  had  brought  in  fifty  cents,  and  a 
second  one,  sold  to  a  high-grade  comic  weekly,  had  fetched 
a  dollar.  Then  two  humorous  poems  had  earned  two 
dollars  and  three  dollars  respectively.  As  a  result,  having 
exhausted  his  credit  with  the  tradesmen  (though  he  had 
increased  his  credit  with  the  grocer  to  five  dollars),  his 
wheel  and  suit  of  clothes  went  back  to  the  pawnbroker. 
The  type-writer  people  were  again  clamoring  for  money, 
insistently  pointing  out  that  according  to  the  Agreement 
rent  was  to  be  paid  strictly  in  advance. 

Encouraged  by  his  several  small  sales,  Martin  went  back 
to  hack-work.  Perhaps  there  was  a  living  in  it,  after  all. 
Stored  away  under  his  table  were  the  twenty  storiettes 
which  had  been  rejected  by  the  newspaper  short-story 
syndicate.  He  read  them  over  in  order  to  find  out  how 
not  to  write  newspaper  storiettes,  and  so  doing,  reasoned 
out  the  perfect  formula.  He  found  that  the  news- 

246 


MARTIN  EDEN  247 

paper  storiette  should  never  be  tragic,  should  never  end 
unhappily,  and  should  never  contain  beauty  of  language, 
subtlety  of  thought,  nor  real  delicacy  of  sentiment.  Sen 
timent  it  must  contain,  plenty  of  it,  pure  and  noble,  of  the 
sort  that  in  his  own  early  youth  had  brought  his  applause 
from  "  nigger  heaven  "  —  the  "  For-God-my-country-and- 
the-Czar  "  and  "  I-may-be-poor-but-I-am-honest  "  brand 
of  sentiment. 

Having  learned  such  precautions,  Martin  consulted  "  The 
Duchess"  for  tone,  and  proceeded  to  mix  according  to 
formula.  The  formula  consists  of  three  parts:  (1)  a  pair 
of  lovers  are  jarred  apart;  (2)  by  some  deed  or  event 
they  are  reunited;  (3)  marriage  bells.  The  third  part 
was  an  unvarying  quantity,  but  the  first  and  second  parts 
could  be  varied  an  infinite  number  of  times.  Thus,  the 
pair  of  lovers  could  be  jarred  apart  by  misunderstood 
motives,  by  accident  of  fate,  by  jealous  rivals,  by  irate 
parents,  by  crafty  guardians,  by  scheming  relatives,  and 
so  forth  and  so  forth;  they  could  be  reunited  by  a  brave 
deed  of  the  man  lover,  by  a  similar  deed  of  the  woman  lover, 
by  change  of  heart  in  one  lover  or  the  other,  by  forced  con 
fession  of  crafty  guardian,  scheming  relative,  or  jealous 
rival,  by  voluntary  confession  of  same,  by  discovery  of 
some  unguessed  secret,  by  lover  storming  girl's  heart, 
by  lover  making  long  and  noble  self-sacrifice,  and  so  on, 
endlessly.  It  was  very  fetching  to  make  the  girl  propose 
in  the  course  of  being  reunited,  and  Martin  discovered, 
bit  by  bit,  other  decidedly  piquant  and  fetching  ruses. 
But  marriage  bells  at  the  end  was  the  one  thing  he  could 
take  no  liberties  with;  though  the  heavens  rolled  up  as  a 
scroll  and  the  stars  fell,  the  wedding  bells  must  go  on 
ringing  just  the  same.  In  quantity,  the  formula  pre 
scribed  twelve  hundred  words  minimum  dose,  fifteen 
hundred  words  maximum  dose. 

Before  he  got  very  far  along  in  the  art  of  the  storiette, 
Martin  worked  out  half  a  dozen  stock  forms,  which  he 
always  consulted  when  constructing  storiettes.  These 
forms  were  like  the  cunning  tables  used  by  mathemati 
cians,  which  may  be  entered  from  top,  bottom,  right,  and 


248  MARTIN  EDEN 

left,  which  entrances  consist  of  scores  of  lines  and  dozens 
of  columns,  and  from  which  may  be  drawn,  without  reason 
ing  or  thinking,  thousands  of  different  conclusions,  all 
unchallengably  precise  and  true.  Thus,  in  the  course 
of  half  an  hour  with  his  forms,  Martin  could  frame  up  a 
dozen  or  so  storiettes,  which  he  put  aside  and  filled  in  at 
his  convenience.  He  found  that  he  could  fill  one  in, 
after  a  day  of  serious  work,  in  the  hour  before  going  to 
bed.  As  he  later  confessed  to  Ruth,  he  could  almost 
do  it  in  his  sleep.  The  real  work  was  in  constructing 
the  frames,  and  that  was  merely  mechanical. 

He  had  no  doubt  whatever  of  the  efficacy  of  his  formula, 
and  for  once  he  knew  the  editorial  mind  when  he  said 
positively  to  himself  that  the  first  two  he  sent  off  would 
bring  checks.  And  checks  they  brought,  for  four  dollars 
each,  at  the  end  of  twelve  days. 

In  the  meantime  he  was  making  fresh  and  alarming 
discoveries  concerning  the  magazines.  Though  the 
Transcontinental  had  published  "  The  Ring  of  Bells," 
no  check  was  forthcoming.  Martin  needed  it,  and  he 
wrote  for  it.  An  evasive  answer  and  a  request  for  more, 
of  his  work  was  all  he  received.  He  had  gone  hungry 
two  days  waiting  for  the  reply,  and  it  was  then  that  he 
put  his  wheel  back  in  pawn.  He  wrote  regularly,  twice 
a  week,  to  the  Transcontinental  for  his  five  dollars, 
though  it  was  only  semi-occasionally  that  he  elicited  a  re 
ply.  He  did  not  know  that  the  Transcontinental  had 
been  staggering  along  precariously  for  years,  that  it 
was  a  fourth-rater,  or  a  tenth-rater,  without  standing,  with 
a  crazy  circulation  that  partly  rested  on  petty  bullying 
and  partly  on  patriotic  appealing,  and  with  advertisements 
that  were  scarcely  more  than  charitable  donations.  Nor 
did  he  know  that  the  Transcontinental  was  the  sole 
livelihood  of  the  editor  and  the  business  manager,  and 
that  they  could  wring  their  livelihood  out  of  it  only  by 
moving  to  escape  paying  rent  and  by  never  paying  any 
bill  they  could  evade.  Nor  could  he  have  guessed  that 
the  particular  five  dollars  that  belonged  to  him  had  been 
appropriated  by  the  business  manager  for  the  painting  of 


MARTIN  EDEN  249 

his  house  in  Alameda,  which  painting  he  performed  him 
self,  on  week-day  afternoons,  because  he  could  not  afford 
to  pay  union  wages  and  because  the  first  scab  he  had 
employed  had  had  a  ladder  jerked  out  from  under  him 
and  been  sent  to  the  hospital  with  a  broken  collar-bone. 

The  ten  dollars  for  which  Martin  had  sold  "  Treasure 
Hunters "  to  the  Chicago  newspaper  did  not  come  to 
hand.  The  article  had  been  published,  as  he  had  ascer 
tained  at  the  file  in  the  Central  Reading-room,  but  no 
word  could  he  get  from  the  editor.  His  letters  were 
ignored.  To  satisfy  himself  that  they  had  been  received, 
he  registered  several  of  them.  It  was  nothing  less  than 
robbery,  he  concluded  —  a  cold-blooded  steal ;  while  he 
starved,  he  was  pilfered  of  his  merchandise,  of  his  goods, 
the  sale  of  which  was  the  sole  way  of  getting  bread  to  eat. 

Youth  and  Age  was  a  weekly,  and  it  had  published 
two-thirds  of  his  twenty-one-thousand-word  serial  when 
it  went  out  of  business.  With  it  went  all  hopes  of  get 
ting  his  sixteen  dollars. 

To  cap  the  situation,  "  The  Pot,"  which  he  looked  upon 
as  one  of  the  best  things  he  had  written,  was  lost  to  him. 
In  despair,  casting  about  frantically  among  the  magazines, 
he  had  sent  it  to  The  Billow,  a  society  weekly  in  San 
Francisco.  His  chief  reason  for  submitting  it  to  that 
publication  was  that,  having  only  to  travel  across  the  bay 
from  Oakland,  a  quick  decision  could  be  reached.  Two 
weeks  later  he  was  overjoyed  to  see,  in  the  latest  number 
on  the  news-stand,  his  story  printed  in  full,  illustrated, 
and  in  the  place  of  honor.  He  went  home  with  leaping 
pulse,  wondering  how  much  they  would  pay  him  for  one 
of  the  best  things  he  had  done.  Also,  the  celerity  with 
which  it  had  been  accepted  and  published  was  a  pleasant 
thought  to  him.  That  the  editor  had  not  informed  him 
of  the  acceptance  made  the  surprise  more  complete.  After 
waiting  a  week,  two  weeks,  and  half  a  week  longer,  des 
peration  conquered  diffidence,  and  he  wrote  to  the  editor 
of  The  Billow,  suggesting  that  possibly  through  some 
negligence  of  the  business  manager  his  little  account  had 
been  overlooked. 


250  MARTIN  EDEN 

Even  if  it  isn't  more  than  five  dollars,  Martin  thought 
to  himself,  it  will  buy  enough  beans  and  pea-soup  to  enable 
me  to  write  half  a  dozen  like  it,  and  possibly  as  good. 

Back  came  a  cool  letter  from  the  editor  that  at  least 
elicited  Martin's  admiration. 

"  We  thank  you,"  it  ran,  "  for  your  excellent  contribu 
tion.  All  of  us  in  the  office  enjoyed  it  immensely,  and,  as 
you  see,  it  was  given  the  place  of  honor  and  immediate 
publication.  We  earnestly  hope  that  you  liked  the  illus 
trations. 

"  On  rereading  your  letter  it  seems  to  us  that  you  are 
laboring  under  the  misapprehension  that  we  pay  for  unso 
licited  manuscripts.  This  is  not  our  custom,  and  of  course 
yours  was  unsolicited.  We  assumed,  naturally,  when  we 
received  your  story,  that  you  understood  the  situation. 
We  can  only  deeply  regret  this  unfortunate  misunder 
standing,  and  assure  you  of  our  unfailing  regard.  Again, 
thanking  you  for  your  kind  contribution,  and  hoping  to 
receive  more  from  you  in  the  near  future,  we  remain,  etc." 

There  was  also  a  postscript  to  the  effect  that  though 
The  Billow  carried  no  free  list,  it  took  great  pleasure 
in  sending  him  a  complimentary  subscription  for  the  ensu 
ing  year. 

After  that  experience,  Martin  typed  at  the  top  of  the 
first  sheet  of  all  his  manuscripts  :  "  Submitted  at  your 
usual  rate." 

Some  day,  he  consoled  himself,  they  will  be  submitted 
at  my  usual  rate. 

He  discovered  in  himself,  at  this  period,  a  passion  for 
perfection,  under  the  sway  of  which  he  rewrote  and  pol 
ished  "  The  Jostling  Street,"  "  The  Wine  of  Life,"  "  Joy," 
the  "  Sea  Lyrics,"  and  others  of  his  earlier  work.  As  of 
old,  nineteen  hours  of  labor  a  day  was  all  too  little  to  suit 
him.  He  wrote  prodigiously,  and  he  read  prodigiously, 
forgetting  in  his  toil  the  pangs  caused  by  giving  up  his 
tobacco.  Ruth's  promised  cure  for  the  habit,  flamboyantly 
labelled,  he  stowed  away  in  the  most  inaccessible  corner 
of  his  bureau.  Especially  during  his  stretches  of  famine 
he  suffered  from  lack  of  the  weed ;  but  no  matter  how 


MARTIN  EDEN  251 

often  he  mastered  the  craving,  it  remained  with  him  as 
strong  as  ever.  He  regarded  it  as  the  biggest  thing  he 
had  ever  achieved.  Ruth's  point  of  view  was  that  he  was 
doing  no  more  than  was  right.  She  brought  him  the 
anti-tobacco  remedy,  purchased  out  of  her  glove  money, 
and  in  a  few  days  forgot  all  about  it. 

His  machine-made  storiettes,  though  he  hated  them  and 
derided  them,  were  successful.  By  means  of  them  he  re 
deemed  all  his  pledges,  paid  most  of  his  bills,  and  bought 
a  new  set  of  tires  for  his  wheel.  The  storiettes  at  least 
kept  the  pot  a-boiling  and  gave  him  time  for  ambitious 
work  ;  while  the  one  thing  that  upheld  him  was  the  forty 
dollars  he  had  received  from  The  White  Mouse.  He 
anchored  his  faith  to  that,  and  was  confident  that  the 
really  first-class  magazines  would  pay  an  unknown  writer 
at  least  an  equal  rate,  if  not  a  better  one.  But  the  thing 
was,  how  to  get  into  the  first-class  magazines.  His  best 
stories,  essays,  and  poems  went  begging  among  them,  and 
yet,  each  month,  he  read  reams  of  dull,  prosy,  inartistic 
stuff  between  all  their  various  covers.  If  only  one  editor, 
he  sometimes  thought,  would  descend  from  his  high  seat  of 
pride  to  write  me  one  cheering  line  I  No  matter  if  my 
work  is  unusual,  no  matter  if  it  is  unfit,  for  prudential 
reasons,  for  their  pages,  surely  there  must  be  some  sparks 
in  it,  somewhere,  a  few,  to  warm  them  to  some  sort  of  ap 
preciation.  And  thereupon  he  would  get  out  one  or  an 
other  of  his  manuscripts,  such  as  "  Adventure,"  and  read 
it  over  and  over  in  a  vain  attempt  to  vindicate  the  editorial 
silence. 

As  the  sweet  California  spring  came  on,  his  period  of 
plenty  came  to  an  end.  For  several  weeks  he  had  been 
worried  by  a  strange  silence  on  the  part  of  the  newspaper 
storiette  syndicate.  Then,  one  day,  came  back  to  him 
through  the  mail  ten  of  his  immaculate  machine-made  stori 
ettes.  They  were  accompanied  by  a  brief  letter  to  the 
effect  that  the  syndicate  was  overstocked,  and  that  some 
months  would  elapse  before  it  would  be  in  the  market 
again  for  manuscripts.  Martin  had  even  been  extravagant 
OD.  the  strength  of  those  ten  storiettes.  Toward  the  last 


252  MARTIN  EDEN 

the  syndicate  had  been  paying  him  five  dollars  each  for 
them  and  accepting  every  one  he  sent.  So  he  had  looked 
upon  the  ten  as  good  as  sold,  and  he  had  lived  accordingly, 
on  a  basis  of  fifty  dollars  in  the  bank.  So  it  was  that  he 
entered  abruptly  upon  a  lean  period,  wherein  he  continued 
selling  his  earlier  efforts  to  publications  that  would  not 
pay  and  submitting  his  later  work  to  magazines  that 
would  not  buy.  Also,  he  resumed  his  trips  to  the  pawn 
broker  down  in  Oakland.  A  few  jokes  and  snatches  of 
humorous  verse,  sold  to  the  New  York  weeklies,  made  ex 
istence  barely  possible  for  him.  It  was  at  this  time  that 
he  wrote  letters  of  inquiry  to  the  several  great  monthly 
and  quarterly  reviews,  and  learned  in  reply  that  they  rarely 
considered  unsolicited  articles,  and  that  most  of  their  con 
tents  were  written  upon  order  by  well-known  specialists 
who  were  authorities  in  their  various  fields. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

IT  was  a  hard  summer  for  Martin.  Manuscript  readers 
and  editors  were  away  on  vacation,  and  publications  that 
ordinarily  returned  a  decision  in  three  weeks  now  retained 
his  manuscript  for  three  months  or  more.  The  consolation 
he  drew  from  it  was  that  a  saving  in  postage  was  effected 
by  the  deadlock.  Only  the  robber-publications  seemed  to 
remain  actively  in  business,  and  to  them  Martin  disposed 
of  all  his  early  efforts,  such  as  "Pearl-diving,"  "The 
Sea  as  a  Career,"  "  Turtle-catching,"  and  "  The  Northeast 
Trades."  For  these  manuscripts  he  never  received  a 
penny.  It  is  true,  after  six  months'  correspondence,  he 
effected  a  compromise,  whereby  he  received  a  safety  razor 
for  "  Turtle-catching,"  and  that  The  Acropolis,  having 
agreed  to  give  him  five  dollars  cash  and  five  yearly  sub 
scriptions  for  "  The  Northeast  Trades,"  fulfilled  the  second 
part  of  the  agreement. 

For  a  sonnet  on  Stevenson  he  managed  to  wring  two 
dollars  out  of  a  Boston  editor  who  was  running  a  magazine 
with  a  Matthew  Arnold  taste  and  a  penny-dreadful  purse. 
"  The  Peri  and  the  Pearl,"  a  clever  skit  of  a  poem  of  two 
hundred  lines,  just  finished,  white  hot  from  his  brain,  won 
the  heart  of  the  editor  of  a  San  Francisco  magazine  pub 
lished  in  the  interest  of  a  great  railroad.  When  the  editor 
wrote,  offering  him  payment  in  transportation,  Martin 
wrote  back  to  inquire  if  the  transportation  was  transferable. 
It  was  not,  and  so,  being  prevented  from  peddling  it,  he 
asked  for  the  return  of  the  poem.  Back  it  came,  with  the 
editor's  regrets,  and  Martin  sent  it  to  San  Francisco  again, 
this  time  to  The  Hornet,  a  pretentious  monthly  that  had 
been  fanned  into  a  constellation  of  the  first  magnitude  by 
the  brilliant  journalist  who  founded  it.  But  The  Hor 
net's  light  had  begun  to  dim  long  before  Martin  was 

253 


254  MARTIN  EDEN 

born.  The  editor  promised  Martin  fifteen  dollars  for  the 
poem,  but,  when  it  was  published,  seemed  to  forget  about 
it.  Several  of  his  letters  being  ignored,  Martin  indicted  an 
angry  one  which  drew  a  reply.  It  was  written  by  a  new 
editor,  who  coolly  informed  Martin  that  he  declined  to  be 
held  responsible  for  the  old  editor's  mistakes,  and  that  he 
did  not  think  much  of  "  The  Peri  and  the  Pearl "  anyway. 

But  The  G-lobe,  a  Chicago  magazine,  gave  Martin  the 
most  cruel  treatment  of  all.  He  had  refrained  from  offer 
ing  his  "Sea  Lyrics"  for  publication,  until  driven  to  it 
by  starvation.  After  having  been  rejected  by  a  dozen 
magazines,  they  had  come  to  rest  in  The  Globe  office. 
There  were  thirty  poems  in  the  collection,  and  he  was  to 
receive  a  dollar  apiece  for  them.  The  first  month  four 
were  published,  and  he  promptly  received  a  check  for  four 
dollars;  but  when  he  looked  over  the  magazine,  he  was 
appalled  at  the  slaughter.  In  some  cases  the  titles  had 
been  altered:  "  Finis,"  for  instance,  being  changed  to 
"  The  Finish,"  and  «  The  Song  of  the  Outer  Reef"  to  "The 
Song  of  the  Coral  Reef."  In  one  case,  an  absolutely  dif 
ferent  title,  a  misappropriate  title,  was  substituted.  In 
place  of  his  own,  "  Medusa  Lights,"  the  editor  had  printed, 
"The  Backward  Track."  But  the  slaughter  in  the  body 
of  the  poems  was  terrifying.  Martin  groaned  and  sweated 
and  thrust  his  hands  through  his  hair.  Phrases,  lines,  and 
stanzas  were  cut  out,  interchanged,  or  juggled  about  in 
the  most  incomprehensible  manner.  Sometimes  lines  and 
stanzas  not  his  own  were  substituted  for  his.  He  could 
not  believe  that  a  sane  editor  could  be  guilty  of  such  mal 
treatment,  and  his  favorite  hypothesis  was  that  his  poems 
must  have  been  doctored  by  the  office  boy  or  the  stenog 
rapher.  Martin  wrote  immediately,  begging  the  editor 
to  cease  publishing  the  lyrics  and  to  return  them  to  him. 
He  wrote  again  and  again,  begging,  entreating,  threatening, 
but  his  letters  were  ignored.  Month  by  month  the  slaugh 
ter  went  on  till  the  thirty  poems  were  published,  and 
month  by  month  he  received  a  check  for  those  which 
had  appeared  in  the  current  number. 

Despite   these  various  misadventures,  the   memory  of 


MARTIN  EDEN  255 

the  White  Mouse  forty-dollar  check  sustained  him,  though 
he  was  driven  more  and  more  to  hack-work.  He  discov 
ered  a  bread-and-butter  field  in  the  agricultural  week 
lies  and  trade  journals,  though  among  the  religious  week 
lies  he  found  he  could  easily  starve.  At  his  lowest  ebb, 
when  his  black  suit  was  in  pawn,  he  made  a  ten-strike  — 
or  so  it  seemed  to  him  —  in  a  prize  contest  arranged  by 
the  County  Committee  of  the  Republican  Party.  There 
were  three  branches  of  the  contest,  and  he  entered  them 
all,  laughing  at  himself  bitterly  the  while  in  that  he  was 
driven  to  such  straits  to  live.  His  poem  won  the  first 
prize  of  ten  dollars,  his  campaign  song  the  second  prize  of 
five  dollars,  his  essay  on  the  principles  of  the  Republican 
Party  the  first  prize  of  twenty -five  dollars.  Which  was 
very  gratifying  to  him  until  he  tried  to  collect.  Some 
thing  had  gone  wrong  in  the  County  Committee,  and, 
though  a  rich  banker  and  a  state  senator  were  members  of 
it,  the  money  was  not  forthcoming.  While  this  affair  was 
hanging  fire,  he  proved  that  he  understood  the  principles 
of  the  Democratic  Party  by  winning  the  first  prize  for  his 
essay  in  a  similar  contest.  And,  moreover,  he  received 
the  money,  twenty -five  dollars.  But  the  forty  dollars  won 
in  the  first  contest  he  never  received. 

Driven  to  shifts  in  order  to  see  Ruth,  and  deciding  that 
the  long  walk  from  north  Oakland  to  her  house  and  back 
again  consumed  too  much  time,  he  kept  his  black  suit  in 
pawn  in  place  of  his  bicycle.  The  latter  gave  him  exer 
cise,  saved  him  hours  of  time  for  work,  and  enabled  him  to 
see  Ruth  just  the  same.  A  pair  of  knee  duck  trousers  and 
an  old  sweater  made  him  a  presentable  wheel  costume,  so 
that  he  could  go  with  Ruth  on  afternoon  rides.  Besides, 
he  no  longer  had  opportunity  to  see  much  of  her  in  her 
own  home,  where  Mrs.  Morse  was  thoroughly  prosecuting 
her  campaign  of  entertainment.  The  exalted  beings  he 
met  there,  and  to  whom  he  had  looked  up  but  a  short  time 
before,  now  bored  him.  They  were  no  longer  exalted.  He 
was  nervous  and  irritable,  what  of  his  hard  times,  disap 
pointments,  and  close  application  to  work,  and  the  conver 
sation  of  such  people  was  maddening.  He  was  not  unduly 


256  MARTIN  EDEN 

egotistic.  He  measured  the  narrowness  of  their  minds  by 
the  minds  of  the  thinkers  in  the  books  he  read.  At  Ruth's 
home  he  never  met  a  large  mind,  with  the  exception  of 
Professor  Caldwell,  and  Caldwell  he  had  met  there  only 
once.  As  for  the  rest,  they  were  numskulls,  ninnies,  super 
ficial,  dogmatic,  and  ignorant.  It  was  their  ignorance  that 
astounded  him.  What  was  the  matter  with  them?  What 
had  they  done  with  their  educations?  They  had  had  ac 
cess  to  the  same  books  he  had.  How  did  it  happen  that 
they  had  drawn  nothing  from  them  ? 

He  knew  that  the  great  minds,  the  deep  and  rational 
thinkers,  existed.  He  had  his  proofs  from  the  books,  the 
books  that  had  educated  him  beyond  the  Morse  standard. 
And  he  knew  that  higher  intellects  than  those  of  the  Morse 
circle  were  to  be  found  in  the  world.  He  read  English 
society  novels,  wherein  he  caught  glimpses  of  men  and 
women  talking  politics  and  philosophy.  And  he  read  of 
salons  in  great  cities,  even  in  the  United  States,  where 
art  and  intellect  congregated.  Foolishly,  in  the  past,  he 
had  conceived  that  all  well-groomed  persons  above  the 
working  class  were  persons  with  power  of  intellect  and 
vigor  of  beauty.  Culture  and  collars  had  gone  together, 
to  him,  and  he  had  been  deceived  into  believing  that  col 
lege  educations  and  mastery  were  the  same  things. 

Well,  he  would  fight  his  way  on  and  up  higher.  And 
he  would  take  Ruth  with  him.  Her  he  dearly  loved,  and 
he  was  confident  that  she  would  shine  anywhere.  As  it 
was  clear  to  him  that  he  had  been  handicapped  by  his 
early  environment,  so  now  he  perceived  that  she  was 
similarly  handicapped.  She  had  not  had  a  chance 
to  expand.  The  books  on  her  father's  shelves,  the  paintings 
on  the  walls,  the  music  on  the  piano — all  was  just  so  much 
meretricious  display.  To  real  literature,  real  painting, 
real  music,  the  Morses  and  their  kind,  were  dead.  And  big 
ger  than  such  things  was  life,  of  which  they  were  densely, 
hopelessly  ignorant.  In  spite  of  their  Unitarian  procliv 
ities  and  their  masks  of  conservative  broadmindedness, 
they  were  two  generations  behind  interpretative  science  : 
their  mental  processes  were  mediaeval,  while  their  thinking 


MARTIN  EDEN  257 

on  the  ultimate  data  of  existence  and  of  the  universe  struck 
him  as  the  same  metaphysical  method  that  was  as  young  as 
the  youngest  race,  as  old  as  the  cave-man,  and  older  —  the 
same  that  moved  the  first  Pleistocene  ape-man  to  fear  the 
dark ;  that  moved  the  first  hasty  Hebrew  savage  to  incar 
nate  Eve  from  Adam's  rib  ;  that  moved  Descartes  to  build 
an  idealistic  system  of  the  universe  out  of  the  projections 
of  his  own  puny  ego ;  and  that  moved  the  famous  British 
ecclesiastic  to  denounce  evolution  in  satire  so  scathing  as 
to  win  immediate  applause  and  leave  his  name  a  notorious 
scrawl  on  the  page  of  history. 

So  Martin  thought,  and  he  thought  further,  till  it  dawned 
upon  him  that  the  difference  between  these  lawyers,  officers, 
business  men,  and  bank  cashiers  he  had  met  and  the  mem 
bers  of  the  working  class  he  had  known  was  on  a  par  with 
the  difference  in  the  food  they  ate,  clothes  they  wore, 
neighborhoods  in  which  they  lived.  Certainly,  in  all  of 
them  was  lacking  the  something  more  which  he  found  in 
himself  and  in  the  books.  The  Morses  had  shown  him  the 
best  their  social  position  could  produce,  and  he  was  not 
impressed  by  it.  A  pauper  himself,  a  slave  to  the  money 
lender,  he  knew  himself  the  superior  of  those  he  met  at 
the  Morses' ;  and,  when  his  one  decent  suit  of  clothes  was 
out  of  pawn,  he  moved  among  them  a  lord  of  life,  quivering 
with  a  sense  of  outrage  akin  to  what  a  prince  would  suffer 
if  condemned  to  live  with  goat-herds. 

"  You  hate  and  fear  the  socialists,"  he  remarked  to  Mr. 
Morse,  one  evening  at  dinner;  "but  why?  You  know 
neither  them  nor  their  doctrines." 

The  conversation  had  been  swung  in  that  direction  by 
Mrs.  Morse,  who  had  been  invidiously  singing  the  praises 
of  Mr.  Hapgood.  The  cashier  was  Martin's  black  beast, 
and  his  temper  was  a  trifle  short  where  the  talker  of  plati 
tudes  was  concerned. 

"Yes,"  he  had  said,  "Charley  Hapgood  is  what  they 
cal1  a  rising  young  man — somebody  told  me  as  much.  And 
it  is  true.  He'll  make  the  Governor's  Chair  before  he  dies, 
and,  who  knows?  maybe  the  United  States  Senate." 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?  "  Mrs.  Morse  had  inquired. 


258  MARTIN  EDEN 

"I've  heard  him  make  a  campaign  speech.  It  was  so 
cleverly  stupid  and  unoriginal,  and  also  so  convincing, 
that  the  leaders  cannot  help  but  regard  him  as  safe  and 
sure,  while  his  platitudes  are  so  much  like  the  platitudes 
of  the  average  voter  that  —  oh,  well,  you  know  you  flatter 
any  man  by  dressing  up  his  own  thoughts  for  him  and 
presenting  them  to  him." 

"I  actually  think  you  are  jealous  of  Mr.  Hapgood," 
Ruth  had  chimed  in. 

"Heaven  forbid!" 

The  look  of  horror  on  Martin's  face  stirred  Mrs.  Morse 
to  belligerence. 

"You  surely  don't  mean  to  say  that  Mr.  Hapgood  is 
stupid  ?  "  she  demanded  icily. 

"  No  more  than  the  average  Republican,"  was  the  retort, 
"  or  average  Democrat,  either.  They  are  all  stupid  when 
they  are  not  crafty,  and  very  few  of  them  are  crafty. 
The  only  wise  Republicans  are  the  millionnaires  and  their 
conscious  henchmen.  They  know  which  side  their  bread 
is  buttered  on,  and  they  know  why." 

"  I  am  a  Republican,"  Mr.  Morse  put  in  lightly.  "  Pray, 
how  do  3- ou  classify  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  are  an  unconscious  henchman." 

"  Henchman  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes.  You  do  corporation  work.  You  have  no 
working-class  nor  criminal  practice.  You  don't  depend 
upon  wife-beaters  and  pickpockets  for  your  income.  You 
get  your  livelihood  from  the  masters  of  society,  and  who 
ever  feeds  a  man  is  that  man's  master.  Yes,  you  are  a 
henchman.  You  are  interested  in  advancing  the  interests 
of  the  aggregations  of  capital  you  serve." 

Mr.  Morse's  face  was  a  trifle  red. 

"  I  confess,  sir,"  he  said,  "  that  you  talk  like  a  scoun 
drelly  socialist." 

Then  it  was  that  Martin  made  his  remark  :  — 

"  You  hate  and  fear  the  socialists  ;  but  why  ?  You 
know  neither  them  nor  their  doctrines." 

"Your  doctrine  certainly  sounds  like  socialism,"  Mr. 
Morse  replied,  while  Ruth  gazed  anxiously  from  one  to 


MARTIN  EDEN  259 

the  other,  and  Mrs.  Morse  beamed  happily  at  the  oppor 
tunity  afforded  of  rousing  her  liege  lord's  antagonism. 

"  Because  I  say  Republicans  are  stupid,  and  hold  that 
liberty,  equality,  and  fraternity  are  exploded  bubbles,  does 
not  make  me  a  socialist,"  Martin  said  with  a  smile.  "  Be 
cause  I  question  Jefferson  and  the  unscientific  Frenchmen 
who  informed  his  mind,  does  not  make  me  a  socialist. 
Believe  me,  Mr.  Morse,  you  are  far  nearer  socialism  than 
I  who  am  its  avowed  enemy." 

"Now  you  please  to  be  facetious,"  was  all  the  other 
could  say. 

"  Not  at  all.  I  speak  in  all  seriousness.  You  still 
believe  in  equality,  and  yet  you  do  the  work  of  the  cor 
porations,  and  the  corporations,  from  day  to  day,  are 
busily  engaged  in  burying  equality.  And  you  call  me 
a  socialist  because  I  deny  equality,  because  I  affirm  just 
what  you  live  up  to.  The  Republicans  are  foes  to  equality, 
though  most  of  them  fight  the  battle  against  equality  with 
the  very  word  itself  the  slogan  on  their  lips.  In  the  name 
of  equality  they  destroy  equality.  That  was  why  I  called 
them  stupid.  As  for  myself,  I  am  an  individualist.  I 
believe  the  race  is  to  the  swift,  the  battle  to  the  strong. 
Such  is  the  lesson  I  have  learned  from  biology,  or  at  least 
think  I  have  learned.  As  I  said,  I  am  an  individualist, 
and  individualism  is  the  hereditary  and  eternal  foe  of 
socialism." 

"  But  you  frequent  socialist  meetings,"  Mr.  Morse 
challenged. 

"  Certainly,  just  as  spies  frequent  hostile  camps.  How 
else  are  you  to  learn  about  the  enemy  ?  Besides,  I  enjoy 
myself  at  their  meetings.  They  are  good  fighters,  and, 
right  or  wrong,  they  have  read  the  books.  Any  one  of 
them  knows  far  more  about  sociology  and  all  the  other 
ologies  than  the  average  captain  of  industry.  Yes,  I  have 
been  to  half  a  dozen  of  their  meetings,  but  that  doesn't 
make  me  a  socialist  any  more  than  hearing  Charley  Hap- 
good  orate  made  me  a  Republican." 

•-  "  I  can't  help  it,"  Mr.  Morse  said  feebly,    «  but  I  still 
believe  you  incline  that  way." 


260  MARTIN  EDEN 

Bless  me,  Martin  thought  to  himself,  he  doesn't  know 
what  I  was  talking  about.  He  hasn't  understood  a  word 
of  it.  What  did  he  do  with  his  education,  anyway  ? 

Thus,  in  his  development,  Martin  found  himself  face  to 
face  with  economic  morality,  or  the  morality  of  class;  and 
soon  it  became  to  him  a  grisly  monster.  Personally,  he 
was  an  intellectual  moralist,  and  more  offending  to  him 
than  platitudinous  pomposity  was  the  morality  of  those 
about  him,  which  was  a  curious  hotchpotch  of  the  eco 
nomic,  the  metaphysical,  the  sentimental,  and  the  imitative. 

A  sample  of  this  curious  messy  mixture  he  encountered 
nearer  home.  His  sister  Marian  had  been  keeping  com 
pany  with  an  industrious  young  mechanic,  of  German 
extraction,  who,  after  thoroughly  learning  the  trade,  had 
set  up  for  himself  in  a  bicycle-repair  shop.  Also,  having 
got  the  agency  for  a  low-grade  make  of  wheel,  he  was 
prosperous.  Marian  had  called  on  Martin  in  his  room  a 
short  time  before  to  announce  her  engagement,  during 
which  visit  she  had  playfully  inspected  Martin's  palm  and 
told  his  fortune.  On  her  next  visit  she  brought  Hermann 
von  Schmidt  along  with  her.  Martin  did  the  honors  and 
congratulated  both  of  them  in  language  so  easy  and 
graceful  as  to  affect  disagreeably  the  peasant-mind  of  his 
sister's  lover.  This  bad  impression  was  further  height 
ened  by  Martin's  reading  aloud  the  half-dozen  stanzas  of 
verse  with  which  he  had  commemorated  Marian's  previous 
visit.  It  was  a  bit  of  society  verse,  airy  and  delicate, 
which  he  had  named  "  The  Palmist."  He  was  surprised, 
when  he  finished  reading  it,  to  note  no  enjoyment  in  his 
sister's  face.  Instead,  her  eyes  were  fixed  anxiously  upon 
her  betrothed,  and  Martin,  following  her  gaze,  saw  spread 
on  that  worthy's  asymmetrical  features  nothing  but  black 
and  sullen  disapproval.  The  incident  passed  over,  they 
made  an  early  departure,  and  Martin  forgot  all  about 
it,  though  for  the  moment  he  had  been  puzzled  that  any 
woman,  even  of  the  working  class,  should  not  have  been 
flattered  and  delighted  by  having  poetry  written  about 
her. 

Several  evenings  later  Marian  again  visited  him,  this 


MARTIN  EDEN  261 

time  alone.  Nor  did  she  waste  time  in  coming  to  the 
point,  upbraiding  him  sorrowfully  for  what  he  had  done. 

"  Why,  Marian,"  he  chided,  "  you  talk  as  though  you 
were  ashamed  of  your  relatives,  or  of  your  brother  at  any 
rate." 

"And  I  am,  too,"  she  blurted  out. 

Martin  was  bewildered  by  the  tears  of  mortification  he 
saw  in  her  eyes.  The  mood,  whatever  it  was,  was  genuine. 

"  But,  Marian,  why  should  your  Hermann  be  jealous 
of  my  writing  poetry  about  my  own  sister?" 

"  He  ain't  jealous,"  she  sobbed.  "  He  says  it  was  in 
decent,  ob — obscene." 

Martin  emitted  a  long,  low  whistle  of  incredulity,  then 
proceeded  to  resurrect  and  read  a  carbon  copy  of  "  The 
Palmist." 

"  I  can't  see  it,"  he  said  finally,  proffering  the  manu 
script  to  her.  "  Read  it  yourself  and  show  me  whatever 
strikes  you  as  obscene  —  that  was  the  word,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  He  says  so,  and  he  ought  to  know,"  was  the  answer, 
with  a  wave  aside  of  the  manuscript,  accompanied  by  a 
look  of  loathing.  "  And  he  says  you've  got  to  tear  it  up. 
He  says  he  won't  have  no  wife  of  his  with  such  things 
written  about  her  which  anybody  can  read.  He  says  it's 
a  disgrace,  an'  he  won't  stand  for  it." 

"  Now,  look  here,  Marian,  this  is  nothing  but  nonsense," 
Martin  began ;  then  abruptly  changed  his  mind. 

He  saw  before  him  an  unhappy  girl,  knew  the  futility  of 
attempting  to  convince  her  husband  or  her,  and,  though 
the  whole  situation  was  absurd  and  preposterous,  he  re 
solved  to  surrender. 

"  All  right,"  he  announced,  tearing  the  manuscript  into 
half  a  dozen  pieces  and  throwing  it  into  the  waste-basket. 

He  contented  himself  with  the  knowledge  that  even  then 
the  original  typewritten  manuscript  was  reposing  in  the 
office  of  a  New  York  magazine.  Marian  and  her  husband 
would  never  know,  and  neither  himself  nor  they  nor  the 
world  would  lose  if  the  pretty,  harmless  poem  ever  were 
published. 

Marian,  starting  to  reach  into  the  waste-basket,  refrained. 


262  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  Can  I  ?  "  she  pleaded. 

He  nodded  his  head,  regarding  her  thoughtfully  as  she 
gathered  the  torn  pieces  of  manuscript  and  tucked  them 
into  the  pocket  of  her  jacket  —  ocular  evidence  of  the 
success  of  her  mission.  She  reminded  him  of  Lizzie 
Connolly,  though  there  was  less  of  fire  and  gorgeous 
flaunting  life  in  her  than  in  that  other  girl  of  the  work 
ing  class  whom  he  had  seen  twice.  But  they  were  on  a 
par,  the  pair  of  them,  in  dress  and  carriage,  and  he  smiled 
with  inward  amusement  at  the  caprice  of  his  fancy  which 
suggested  the  appearance  of  either  of  them  in  Mrs.  Morse's 
drawing-room.  The  amusement  faded,  and  he  was  aware 
of  a  great  loneliness.  This  sister  of  his  and  the  Morse 
drawing-room  were  milestones  of  the  road  he  had  travelled. 
And  he  had  left  them  behind.  He  glanced  affectionately 
about  him  at  his  few  books.  They  were  all  the  comrades 
left  to  him. 

"  Hello,  what's  that?  "  he  demanded  in  startled  surprise. 

Marian  repeated  her  question. 

"  Why  don't  I  go  to  work  ?  "  He  broke  into  a  laugh 
that  was  only  half-hearted.  "That  Hermann  of  yours 
has  been  talking  to  you." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Don't  lie,"  he  commanded,  and  the  nod  of  her  head 
affirmed  his  charge. 

"Well,  you  tell  that  Hermann  of  yours  to  mind  his 
own  business ;  that  when  I  write  poetry  about  the  girl 
he's  keeping  company  with  it's  his  business,  but  that  out 
side  of  that  he's  got  no  say  so.  Understand  ? 

"So  you  don't  think  I'll  succeed  as  a  writer,  eh?"  he 
went  on.  "You  think  I'm  no  good?  —  that  I've  fallen 
down  and  am  a  disgrace  to  the  family  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  would  be  much  better  if  you  got  a  job,"  she 
said  firmly,  and  he  saw  she  was  sincere.  "  Hermann 
says  —  " 

"Damn  Hermann!"  he  broke  out  good-naturedly. 
"  What  I  want  to  know  is  when  you're  going  to  get  married. 
Also,  you  find  out  from  your  Hermann  if  he  will  deign  to 
permit  you  to  accept  a  wedding  present  from  me." 


MARTIN  EDEN  263 

He  mused  over  the  incident  after  she  had  gone,  and 
once  or  twice  broke  out  into  laughter  that  was  bitter  as 
lie  saw  his  sister  and  her  betrothed,  all  the  members  of 
his  own  class  and  the  members  of  Ruth's  class,  directing 
their  narrow  little  lives  by  narrow  little  formulas  —  herd- 
creatures,  flockirg  together  and  patterning  their  lives  by 
one  another's  opinions,  failing  of  being  individuals  and 
of  really  living  life  because  of  the  childlike  formulas  by 
which  they  were  enslaved.  He  summoned  them  before 
him  in  apparitional  procession:  Bernard  Higginbotham 
arm  in  arm  with  Mr.  Butler,  Hermann  von  Schmidt  cheek 
by  j°wl  with  Charley  Hapgood,  and  one  by  one  and  in 
pairs  he  judged  them  and  dismissed  them  —  judged  them 
by  the  standards  of  intellect  and  morality  he  had  learned 
from  the  books.  Vainly  he  asked:  Where  are  the  great 
souls,  the  great  men  and  women?  He  found  them  not 
among  the  careless,  gross,  and  stupid  intelligences  that 
answered  the  call  of  vision  to  his  narrow  room.  He  felt 
a  loathing  for  them  such  as  Circe  must  have  felt  for 
her  swine.  When  he  had  dismissed  the  last  one  and 
thought  himself  alone,  a  late-comer  entered,  unexpected 
and  unsummoned.  Martin  watched  him  and  saw  the 
stiff-rim,  the  square-cut,  double-breasted  coat  and  the 
swaggering  shoulders,  of  the  youthful  hoodlum  who  had 
once  been  he. 

"  You  were  like  all  the  rest,  young  fellow ,"  Martin 
sneered.  "  Your  morality  and  your  knowledge  were  just 
the  same  as  theirs.  You  did  not  think  and  act  for  yourself. 
Your  opinions,  like  your  clothes,  were  ready  made;  your 
acts  were  shaped  by  popular  approval.  You  were  cock 
of  your  gang  because  others  acclaimed  you  the  real  thing. 
You  fought  and  ruled  the  gang,  not  because  you  liked  to, 
— you  know  you  really  despised  it, — but  because  the  other 
fellows  patted  you  on  the  shoulder.  You  licked  Cheese- 
Face  because  you  wouldn't  give  in,  and  you  wouldn't 
give  in  partly  because  you  were  abysmal  brute  and  for 
the  rest  because  you  believed  what  every  one  about  you 
believed,  that  the  measure  of  manhood  was  the  carnivo 
rous  ferocity  displayed  in  injuring  and  marring  fellow- 


264  MARTIN  EDEN 

creatures'  anatomies.  Why,  you  whelp,  you  even  won 
other  fellows'  girls  away  from  them,  not  because  you 
wanted  the  girls,  but  because  in  the  marrow  of  those 
about  you,  those  who  set  your  moral  pace,  was  the  in 
stinct  of  the  wild  stallion  and  the  bull-seal.  Well,  the 
years  have  passed,  and  what  dc  you  think  about  it 
now?" 

As  if  in  reply,  the  vision  i  nderwent  a  swift  metamor 
phosis.  The  stiff-rim  and  the  square-cut  vanished,  being 
replaced  by  milder  garments;  the  toughness  -.vent  out 
of  the  face,  the  hardness  out  of  the  eyes ;  and  the  face, 
chastened  and  refined,  was  irradiated  from  an  inner  life 
of  communion  with  beauty  and  knowledge.  The  appari 
tion  was  very  like  his  present  self,  and,  as  he  regarded 
it,  he  noted  the  student-lamp  by  which  it  was  illuminated, 
and  the  book  over  which  it  pored.  He  glanced  at  the 
title  and  read,  "The  Science  of  ^Esthetics."  Next, 
he  entered  into  the  apparition,  trimmed  the  student- 
lamp,  and  himself  went  on  reading  "The  Science  of 
Esthetics." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

ON  a  beautiful  fall  day,  a  day  of  similar  Indian  sum 
mer  to  that  which  had  seen  their  love  declared  the  year 
before,  Martin  read  his  "  Love-cycle  "  to  Ruth.  It  was  in 
the  afternoon,  and,  as  before,  they  had  ridden  out  to 
their  favorite  knoll  in  the  hills.  Now  and  again  she  had 
interrupted  his  reading  with  exclamations  of  pleasure, 
and  now,  as  he  laid  the  last  sheet  of  manuscript  with 
its  fellows,  he  waited  her  judgment. 

She  delayed  to  speak,  and  at  last  she  spoke  haltingly, 
hesitating  to  frame  in  words  the  harshness  of  her  thought. 

"I  think  they  are  beautiful,  very  beautiful,"  she  said; 
"but  you  can't  sell  them,  can  you?  You  see  what  I 
mean,"  she  said,  almost  pleaded.  "  This  writing  of  yours 
is  not  practical.  Something  is  the  matter  —  maybe  it  is 
with  the  market  —  that  prevents  you  from  earning  a 
living  by  it.  And  please,  dear,  don't  misunderstand  me. 
I  am  flattered,  and  made  proud,  and  all  that  —  I  could 
not  be  a  true  woman  were  it  otherwise  —  that  you  should 
write  these  poems  to  me.  But  they  do  not  make  our 
marriage  possible.  Don't  you  see,  Martin?  Don't  think 
me  mercenary.  It  is  love,  the  thought  of  our  future, 
with  which  I  am  burdened.  A  whole  year  has  gone  by 
since  we  learned  we  loved  each  other,  and  our  wedding 
day  is  no  nearer.  Don't  think  me  immodest  in  thus 
talking  about  our  wedding,  for  really  I  have  my  heart, 
all  that  I  am,  at  stake.  Why  don't  you  try  to  get  work  on 
a  newspaper,  if  you  are  so  bound  up  in  your  writing? 
Why  not  become  a  reporter?  —  for  a  while,  at  least?" 

"  It  would  spoil  my  style,"  was  his  answer,  in  a  low, 
monotonous  voice.  "  You  have  no  idea  how  I've  worked 
for  style." 

265 


266  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  But  those  storiettes,"  she  argued.  "  You  called  them 
hack-work.  You  wrote  many  of  them.  Didn't  they  spoil 
your  style  ?  " 

"No,  the  cases  are  different.  The  storiettes  were 
ground  out,  jaded,  at  the  end  of  a  long  day  of  appli 
cation  to  style.  But  a  reporter's  work  is  all  hack  from 
morning  till  night,  is  the  one  paramount  thing  of  life. 
And  it  is  a  whirlwind  life,  the  life  of  the  moment,  with 
neither  past  nor  future,  and  certainly  without  thought  of 
any  style  but  reportorial  style,  and  that  certainly  is  not 
literature.  To  become  a  reporter  now,  just  as  my  style 
is  taking  form,  crystallizing,  would  be  to  commit  literary 
suicide.  As  it  is,  every  storiette,  every  word  of  every 
storiette,  was  a  violation  of  myself,  of  my  self-respect, 
of  my  respect  for  beauty.  I  tell  you  it  was  sickening. 
I  was  guilty  of  sin.  And  I  was  secretly  glad  when  the 
markets  failed,  even  if  my  clothes  did  go  into  pawn. 
But  the  joy  of  writing  the  4  Love-cycle '  !  The  creative 
joy  in  its  noblest  form !  That  was  compensation  for 
everything." 

Martin  did  not  know  that  Ruth  was  unsympathetic 
concerning  the  creative  joy.  She  used  the  phrase  —  it 
was  on  her  lips  he  had  first  heard  it.  She  had  read  about 
it,  studied  about  it,  in  the  university  in  the  course  of 
earning  her  Bachelorship  of  Arts  ;  but  she  was  not  origi 
nal,  not  creative,  and  all  manifestations  of  culture  on  her 
part  were  but  harpings  of  the  harpings  of  others. 

"  May  not  the  editor  have  been  right  in  his  revision  of 
your  '  Sea  Lyrics '  ?  "  she  questioned.  "  Remember,  an  edi 
tor  must  have  proved  qualifications  or  else  he  would  not 
be  an  editor." 

"  That's  in  line  with  the  persistence  of  the  established," 
he  rejoined,  his  heat  against  the  editor-folk  getting  the 
better  of  him.  "  What  is,  is  not  only  right,  but  is  the  best 
possible.  The  existence  of  anything  is  sufficient  vindica 
tion  of  its  fitness  to  exist — to  exist,  mark  you,  as  the 
average  person  unconsciously  believes,  not  merely  in  pres 
ent  conditions,  but  in  all  conditions.  It  is  their  ignorance, 
of  course,  that  makes  them  believe  such  rot  —  their  igno- 


MARTIN  EDEN  267 

ranee,  which  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  the  henidical 
mental  process  described  by  Weininger.  They  think  they 
think,  and  such  thinkless  creatures  are  the  arbiters  of  the 
lives  of  the  few  who  really  think." 

He  paused,  overcome  by  the  consciousness  that  he  had 
been  talking  over  Ruth's  head. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  who  this  Weininger  is,"  she 
retorted.  "  And  you  are  so  dreadfully  general  that  I  fail 
to  follow  you.  What  I  was  speaking  of  was  the  qualifi 
cation  of  editors  —  " 

"  And  I'll  tell  you,"  he  interrupted.  "  The  chief  quali 
fication  of  ninety-nine  per  cent  of  all  editors  is  failure. 
They  have  failed  as  writers.  Don't  think  they  prefer  the 
drudgery  of  the  desk  and  the  slavery  to  their  circulation  and 
to  the  business  manager  to  the  joy  of  writing.  They  have 
tried  to  write,  and  they  have  failed.  And  right  there  is  the 
cursed  paradox  of  it.  Every  portal  to  success  in  literature 
is  guarded  by  those  watch-dogs,  the  failures  in  literature. 
The  editors,  sub-editors,  associate  editors,  most  of  them, 
and  the  manuscript-readers  for  the  magazines  and  book- 
publishers,  most  of  them,  nearly  all  of  them,  are  men  who 
wanted  to  write  and  who  have  failed.  And  yet  they,  of 
all  creatures  under  the  sun  the  most  unfit,  are  the  very 
creatures  who  decide  what  shall  and  what  shall  not  find 
its  way  into  print  —  they,  who  have  proved  themselves  not 
original,  who  have  demonstrated  that  they  lack  the  divine 
fire,  sit  in  judgment  upon  originality  and  genius.  And 
after  them  come  the  reviewers,  just  so  many  more  failures. 
Don't  tell  me  that  they  have  not  dreamed  the  dream  and 
attempted  to  write  poetry  or  fiction;  for  they  have,  and 
they  have  failed.  Why,  the  average  review  is  more  nau 
seating  than  cod-liver  oil.  But  you  know  my  opinion  on 
the  reviewers  and  the  alleged  critics.  There  are  great 
critics,  but  they  are  as  rare  as  comets.  If  I  fail  as  a 
writer,  I  shall  have  proved  for  the  career  of  editorship. 
There's  bread  and  butter  and  jam,  at  any  rate." 

Ruth's  mind  was  quick,  and  her  disapproval  of  her  lov 
er's  views  was  buttressed  by  the  contradiction  she  found 
in  his  contention. 


268  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  But,  Martin,  if  that  be  so,  if  all  the  doors  are  closed  as 
you  have  shown  so  conclusively,  how  is  it  possible  that 
any  of  the  great  writers  ever  arrived  ?  " 

"They  arrived  by  achieving  the  impossible,'*  he  an 
swered.  "They  did  such  blazing,  glorious  work  as  to 
burn  to  ashes  those  that  opposed  them.  They  arrived  by 
course  of  miracle,  by  winning  a  thousand-to-one  wager 
against  them.  They  arrived  because  they  were  Carlyle's 
battle-scarred  giants  who  will  not  be  kept  down.  And  that 
is  what  I  must  do;  I  must  achieve  the  impossible." 

"But  if  you  fail  ?  You  must  consider  me  as  well,  Martin.'* 

"  If  I  fail  ?  "  He  regarded  her  for  a  moment  as  though 
the  thought  she  had  uttered  was  unthinkable.  Then  in 
telligence  illumined  his  eyes.  "  If  I  fail,  I  shall  become 
an  editor,  and  you  will  be  an  editor's  wife." 

She  frowned  at  his  f acetiousness  —  a  pretty,  adorable 
frown  that  made  him  put  his  arm  around  her  and  kiss  it  away. 

"  There,  that's  enough,"  she  urged,  by  an  effort  of  will 
withdrawing  herself  from  the  fascination  of  his  strength. 
"  I  have  talked  with  father  and  mother.  I  never  before 
asserted  myself  so  against  them.  I  demanded  to  be  heard. 
I  was  very  undutiful.  They  are  against  you,  you  know  ; 
but  I  assured  them  over  and  over  of  my  abiding  love  for 
you,  and  at  last  father  agreed  that  if  you  wanted  to,  you 
could  begin  right  away  in  his  office.  And  then,  of  his 
own  accord,  he  said  he  would  pay  you  enough  at  the  start 
so  that  we  could  get  married  and  have  a  little  cottage 
somewhere.  Which  I  think  was  very  fine  of  him — don't 
you?" 

Martin,  with  the  dull  pain  of  despair  at  his  heart,  me 
chanically  reaching  for  the  tobacco  and  paper  (which  he 
no  longer  carried)  to  roll  a  cigarette,  muttered  something 
inarticulate,  and  Ruth  went  on. 

"  Frankly,  though,  and  don't  let  it  hurt  you  —  I  tell  you, 
to  show  you  precisely  how  you  stand  with  him  —  he  doesn't 
like  your  radical  views,  and  he  thinks  you  are  lazy.  Of 
course  I  know  you  are  not.  I  know  you  work  hard." 

How  hard,  even  she  did  not  know,  was  the  thought  in 
Martin's  mind. 


MARTIN  EDEN  269 

"  Well,  then,"  lie  said,  "  how  about  my  views  ?  Do  you 
think  they  are  so  radical  ?  " 

He  held  her  eyes  and  waited  the  answer. 

"  I  think  them,  well,  very  disconcerting,"  she  replied. 

The  question  was  answered  for  him,  and  so  oppressed 
was  he  by  the  grayness  of  life  that  he  forgot  the  tentative 
proposition  she  had  made  for  him  to  go  to  work.  And 
she,  having  gone  as  far  as  she  dared,  was  willing  to 
wait  the  answer  till  she  should  bring  the  question  up 
again. 

She  had  not  long  to  wait.  Martin  had  a  question  of 
his  own  to  propound  to  her.  He  wanted  to  ascertain  the 
measure  of  her  faith  in  him,  and  within  the  week  each 
was  answered.  Martin  precipitated  it  by  reading  to  her 
his  "  The  Shame  of  the  Sun." 

"  Why  don't  you  become  a  reporter  ?  "  she  asked  when 
he  had  finished.  "  You  love  writing  so,  and  I  am  sure 
you  would  succeed.  You  could  rise  in  journalism  and 
make  a  name  for  yourself.  There  are  a  number  of  great 
special  correspondents.  Their  salaries  are  large,  and 
their  field  is  the  world.  They  are  sent  everywhere,  to 
the  heart  of  Africa,  like  Stanley,  or  to  interview  the 
Pope,  or  to  explore  unknown  Thibet." 

"  Then  you  don't  like  my  essay  ?  "  he  rejoined.  "  You 
believe  that  I  have  some  show  in  journalism  but  none  in 
literature  ?  " 

'*  No,  no  ;  I  do  like  it.  It  reads  well.  But  I  am  afraid 
it's  over  the  heads  of  your  readers.  At  least  it  is  over 
mine.  It  sounds  beautiful,  but  I  don't  understand  it. 
Your  scientific  slang  is  beyond  me.  You  are  an  ex 
tremist,  you  know,  dear,  and  what  may  be  intelligible 
to  you  may  not  be  intelligible  to  the  rest  of  us." 

"  I  imagine  it's  the  philosophic  slang  that  bothers  you," 
was  all  he  could  say. 

He  was  flaming  from  the  fresh  reading  of  the  ripest 
thought  he  had  expressed,  and  her  verdict  stunned  him. 

"  No  matter  how  poorly  it  is  done,"  he  persisted,  "  don't 
you  see  anything  in  it  ? —  in  the  thought  of  it,  I  mean  ?  " 
She  shook  her  hea<3> 


270  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  No,  it  is  so  different  from  anything  I  have  read.  I 
read  Maeterlinck  and  understand  him  —  " 

"  His  mysticism,  you  understand  that  ?  "  Martin  flashed 
out. 

"  Yes,  but  this  of  yours,  which  is  supposed  to  be  an 
attack  upon  him,  I  don't  understand.  Of  course,  if 
originality  counts  —  " 

He  stopped  her  with  an  impatient  gesture  that  was  not 
followed  by  speech.  He  became  suddenly  aware  that  she 
was  speaking  and  that  she  had  been  speaking  for  some 
time. 

"  After  all,  your  writing  has  been  a  toy  to  you,"  she 
was  saying.  "Surely  you  have  played  with  it  long 
enough.  It  is  time  to  take  up  life  seriously  —  our  life* 
Martin.  Hitherto  you  have  lived  solely  your  own." 

"  You  want  me  to  go  to  work  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes.     Father  has  offered  —  " 

"  I  understand  all  that,"  he  broke  in ;  "  but  what  I 
want  to  know  is  whether  or  not  you  have  lost  faith  in 
me?" 

She  pressed  his  hand  mutely,  her  eyes  dim. 

"In  your  writing,  dear,"  she  admitted  in  a  half- whisper. 

"  You've  read  lots  of  my  stuff,"  he  went  on  brutally. 
"  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  Is  it  utterly  hopeless  ? 
How  does  it  compare  with  other  men's  work  ?  " 

"But  they  sell  theirs,  and  you  —  don't." 

"  That  doesn't  answer  my  question.  Do  you  think  that 
literature  is  not  at  all  my  vocation  ?  " 

"Then  I  will  answer."  She  steeled  herself  to  do  it. 
"  I  don't  think  you  were  made  to  write.  Forgive  me, 
dear.  You  compel  me  to.  say  it ;  and  you  know  I  know 
more  about  literature  than  you  do." 

"  Yes,  you  are  a  Bachelor  of  Arts,"  he  said  medita 
tively;  "and  you  ought  to  know." 

"  But  there  is  more  to  be  said,"  he  continued,  after  a 
pause  painful  to  both.  "  I  know  what  I  have  in  me.  No 
one  knows  that  so  well  as  I.  I  know  I  shall  succeed.  I 
will  not  be  kept  down.  I  am  afire  with  what  I  have  to 
say  in  verse,  and  fiction,  and  essay.  I  do  not  ask  you  to 


MARTIN  EDEN  271 

have  faith  in  that,  though.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  have 
faith  in  me,  nor  in  my  writing.  What  I  do  ask  of  you 
is  to  love  me  and  have  faith  in  love. 

"A  year  ago  I  begged  for  two  years.  One  of  those 
years  is  yet  to  run.  And  I  do  believe,  upon  my  honor 
and  my  soul,  that  before  that  year  is  run  I  shall  have 
succeeded.  You  remember  what  you  told  me  long  ago, 
that  I  must  serve  my  apprenticeship  to  writing.  Well,  I 
have  served  it.  I  have  crammed  it  and  telescoped  it. 
With  you  at  the  end  awaiting  me,  I  have  never  shirked. 
Do  you  know,  I  have  forgotten  what  it  is  to  fall  peace 
fully  asleep.  A  few  million  years  ago  I  knew  what  it 
was  to  sleep  my  fill  and  to  awake  naturally  from  very 
glut  of  sleep.  I  am  awakened  always  now  by  an  alarm 
clock.  If  I  fall  asleep  early  or  late,  I  set  the  alarm  ac 
cordingly;  and  this,  and  the  putting  out  of  the  lamp,  are 
my  last  conscious  actions. 

"When  I  begin  to  feel  drowsy,  I  change  the  heavy 
book  I  am  reading  for  a  lighter  one.  And  when  I  doze 
over  that,  I  beat  my  head  with  my  knuckles  in  order  to 
drive  sleep  away.  Somewhere  I  read  of  a  man  who  was 
afraid  to  sleep.  Kipling  wrote  the  story.  This  man  ar 
ranged  a  spur  so  that  when  unconsciousness  came,  his 
naked  body  pressed  against  the  iron  teeth.  Well,  I've 
done  the  same.  I  look  at  the  time,  and  I  resolve  that  not 
until  midnight,  or  not  until  one  o'clock,  or  two  o'clock,  or 
three  o'clock,  shall  the  spur  be  removed.  And  so  it 
rowels  me  awake  until  the  appointed  time.  That  spur 
has  been  my  bed-mate  for  months.  I  have  grown  so  des 
perate  that  five  and  a  half  hours  of  sleep  is  an  extrava 
gance.  I  sleep  four  hours  now.  I  am  starved  for  sleep. 
There  are  times  when  I  am  light-headed  from  want  of 
sleep,  times  when  death,  with  its  rest  and  sleep,  is  a  posi 
tive  lure  to  me,  times  when  I  am  haunted  by  Longfellow's 
lines:  — 

" '  The  sea  is  still  and  deep ; 

All  things  within  its  bosom  sleepy 

A  single  step  and  all  is  o'er, 

A  plunge,  a  bubble,  and  no  more/ 


/ 


272  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  Of  course,  this  is  sheer  nonsense.  It  comes  from  ner 
vousness,  from  an  overwrought  mind.  But  the  point  is: 
Why  have  I  done  this  ?  For  you.  To  shorten  my  ap 
prenticeship.  To  compel  Success  to  hasten.  And  my 
apprenticeship  is  now  served.  I  know  my  equipment. 
I  swear  that  I  learn  more  each  month  than  the  average 
college  man  learns  in  a  year.  I  know  it,  I  tell  you.  But 
were  my  need  for  you  to  understand  not  so  desperate  I 
should  not  tell  you.  It  is  not  boasting.  I  measure  the 
results  by  the  books.  Your  brothers,  to-day,  are  ignorant 
barbarians  compared  with  me  and  the  knowledge  I  have 
wrung  from  the  books  in  the  hours  they  were  sleeping. 
Long  ago  I  wanted  to  be  famous.  I  care  very  little  for 
fame  now.  What  I  want  is  you;  I  am  more  hungry  for 
you  than  for  food,  or  clothing,  or  recognition.  I  have  a 
dream  of  laying  my  head  on  your  breast  and  sleeping  an. 
aeon  or  so,  and  the  dream  will  come  true  ere  another  year 
is  gone." 

His  power  beat  against  her,  wave  upon  wave;  and  in 
the  moment  his  will  opposed  hers  most  she  felt  herself 
most  strongly  drawn  toward  him.  The  strength  that  had 
always  poured  out  from  him  to  her  was  now  flowering  in 
his  impassioned  voice,  his  flashing  eyes,  and  the  vigor  of 
life  and  intellect  surging  in  him.  And  in  that  moment, 
and  for  the  moment,  she  was  aware  of  a  rift  that  showed 
in  her  certitude  —  a  rift  through  which  she  caught  sight 
of  the  real  Martin  Eden,  splendid  and  invincible;  and  as 
animal-trainers  have  their  moments  of  doubt,  so  she,  for 
the  instant,  seemed  to  doubt  her  power  to  tame  this  wild 
spirit  of  a  man. 

"  And  another  thing,"  he  swept  on.  "  You  love  me. 
But  why  do  you  love  me  ?  The  thing  in  me  that  com 
pels  me  to  write  is  the  very  thing  that  draws  your  love. 
You  love  me  because  I  am  somehow  different  from  the 
men  you  have  known  and  might  have  loved.  I  was  not 
made  for  the  desk  and  counting-house,  for  petty  business 
squabbling  and  legal  jangling.  Make  me  do  such  things, 
make  me  like  those  other  men,  doing  the  work  they  do, 
breathing  the  air  they  breathe,  developing  the  point  of 


MARTIN  EDEN  273 

view  they  have  developed,  and  you  have  destroyed  the 
difference,  destroyed  me,  destroyed  the  thing  you  love. 
My  desire  to  write  is  the  most  vital  thing  in  me.  Had  I 
been  a  mere  clod,  neither  would  I  have  desired  to  write, 
nor  would  you  have  desired  me  for  a  husband." 

"  But  you  forget,"  she  interrupted,  the  quick  surface  of 
her  mind  glimpsing  a  parallel.  "  There  have  been  ec 
centric  inventors,  starving  their  families  while  they  sought 
such  chimeras  as  perpetual  motion.  Doubtless  their 
wives  loved  them,  and  suffered  with  them  and  for  them, 
not  because  of  but  in  spite  of  their  infatuation  for  per 
petual  motion." 

"True,"  was  the  reply.  "But  there  have  been  in 
ventors  who  were  not  eccentric  and  who  starved  while 
they  sought  to  invent  practical  things;  and  sometimes, 
it  is  recorded,  they  succeeded.  Certainly  I  do  not  seek 
any  impossibilities  —  " 

"You  have  called  it  'achieving  the  impossible,'"  she 
interpolated. 

"  I  spoke  f  guratively.  I  seek  to  do  what  men  have  done 
before  me  —  to  write  and  to  live  by  my  writing." 

Her  f  ilence  spurred  him  on. 

"  To  you,  then,  my  goal  is  as  much  a  chimera  as  per 
petual  motion?"  he  demanded. 

He  read  her  answer  in  the  pressure  of  her  hand  on  his 
—  the  pitying  mother-hand  for  the  hurt  child.  And  to 
her,  just  then,  he  was  the  hurt  child,  the  infatuated  man 
striving  to  achieve  the  impossible. 

Toward  the  close  of  their  talk  she  warned  him  again  of 
the  antagonism  of  her  father  and  mother. 

"  But  you  love  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  do  !  I  do  I  "  she  cried. 

"  And  I  love  you,  not  them,  and  nothing  they  do  can 
hurt  me."  Triumph  sounded  in  his  voice.  "For  I  have 
faith  in  your  love,  not  fear  of  their  enmity.  All  things 
may  go  astray  in  this  world,  but  not  love.  Love  cannot 
go  wrong  unless  it  be  a  weakling  that  faints  and  stumbles 
by  the  way." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

MARTIN  had  encountered  his  sister  Gertrude  by  chance 
on  Broadway  —  as  it  proved,  a  most  propitious  yet  discon 
certing  chance.  Waiting  on  the  corner  for  a  car,  she  had 
seen  him  first,  and  noted  the  eager,  hungry  lines  of  his 
face  and  the  desperate,  worried  look  of  his  eyes.  In 
truth,  he  was  desperate  and  worried.  He  had  just  come 
from  a  fruitless  interview  with  the  pawnbroker,  from 
whom  he  had  tried  to  wring  an  additional  loan  on  his 
wheel.  The  muddy  fall  weather  having  come  on,  Martin 
had  pledged  his  wheel  some  time  since  and  regained  his 
black  suit. 

"There's  the  black  suit,"  the  pawnbroker,  who  knew 
his  every  asset,  had  answered.  "  You  needn't  tell  me 
you've  gone  and  pledged  it  with  that  Jew,  Lipki.  Be 
cause  if  you  have  — " 

The  man  had  looked  the  threat,  and  Martin  hastened  to 
cry:  — 

"No,  no;  I've  got  it.  But  I  want  to  wear  it  on  a 
matter  of  business," 

"  All  right,"  the  mollified  usurer  had  replied.  "  And 
I  want  it  on  a  matter  of  business  before  I  can  let  you 
have  any  more  money.  You  don't  think  I'm  in  it  for  my 
health?" 

"But  it's  a  forty-dollar  wheel,  in  good  condition," 
Martin  had  argued.  "And  you've  only  let  me  have 
seven  dollars  on  it.  No,  not  even  seven.  Six  and  a 
quarter  ;  you  took  the  interest  in  advance." 

"  If  you  want  some  more,  bring  the  suit,"  had  been  the 
reply  that  sent  Martin  out  of  the  stuffy  little  den,  so  des 
perate  at  heart  as  to  reflect  it  in  his  face  and  touch  his 
sister  to  pity. 

Scarcely  had  they  met  when  the  Telegraph  Avenue  car 

274 


MARTIN  EDEN  275 

•came  along  and  stopped  to  take  on  a  crowd  of  afternoon 
shoppers.  Mrs.  Higginbotham  divined  from  the  grip  on. 
her  arm  as  he  helped  her  on,  that  he  was  not  going  to 
follow  her.  She  turned  on  the  step  and  looked  down 
upon  him.  His  haggard  face  smote  her  to  the  heart 
again. 

"  Ain't  you  comin'  ?  "  she  asked 

The  next  moment  she  had  descended  to  his  side. 

"  I'm  walking  —  exercise,  you  know,"  he  explained. 

"  Then  I'll  go  along  for  a  few  blocks,"  she  announced. 
"  Mebbe  it'll  do  me  good.  I  ain't  ben  feelin'  any  too 
spry  these  last  few  days." 

Martin  glanced  at  her  and  verified  her  statement  in  her 
general  slovenly  appearance,  in  the  unhealthy  fat,  in  the 
drooping  shoulders,  the  tired  face  with  the  sagging  lines, 
and  in  the  heavy  fall  of  her  feet,  without  elasticity  —  a 
very  caricature  of  the  walk  that  belongs  to  a  free  and 
happy  body. 

"  You'd  better  stop  here,"  he  said,  though  she  had  al 
ready  come  to  a  halt  at  the  first  corner,  "  and  take  the 
next  car." 

"  My  goodness  !  —  if  I  ain't  all  tired  a'ready  I  "  she 
panted.  "  But  I'm  just  as  able  to  walk  as  you  in  them 
soles.  They're  that  thin  they'll  bu'st  long  before  you  git 
out  to  North  Oakland." 

"  I've  a  better  pair  at  home,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Come  out  to  dinner  to-morrow,"  she  invited  ir 
relevantly.  "  Mr.  Higginbotham  won't  be  there.  He's 
goin'  to  San  Leandro  on  business." 

Martin  shook  his  head,  but  he  had  failed  to  keep  back 
the  wolfish,  hungry  look  that  leapt  into  his  eyes  at  the 
suggestion  of  dinner. 

"You  haven't  a  penny,  Mart,  and  that's  why  you're 
walkin'.  Exercise  ! "  She  tried  to  sniff  contemptuously, 
but  succeeded  in  producing  only  a  sniffle.  "  Here,  lemme 
see." 

And,  fumbling  in  her  satchel,  she  pressed  a  five-dollar 
piece  into  his  hand.  "  I  guess  I  forgot  your  last  birthday, 
Mart,"  she  mumbled  lamely. 


276  MARTIN  EDEN 

Martin's  hand  instinctively  closed  on  the  piece  of  gold. 
In  the  same  instant  he  knew  he  ought  not  to  accept,  and 
found  himself  struggling  in  the  throes  of  indecision. 
That  bit  of  gold  meant  food,  life,  and  light  in  his  body 
and  brain,  power  to  go  on  writing,  and  —  who  was  to 
say?  —  maybe  to  write  something  that  would  bring  in 
many  pieces  of  gold.  Clear  on  his  vision  burned  the 
manuscripts  of  two  essays  he  had  just  completed.  He 
saw  them  under  the  table  on  top  of  the  heap  of  returned 
manuscripts  for  which  he  had  no  stamps,  and  he  saw  their 
titles,  just  as  he  had  typed  them  —  "The  High  Priests  of 
Mystery," and  "The  Cradle  of  Beauty."  He  had  never 
submitted  them  anywhere.  They  were  as  good  as  any 
thing  he  had  done  in  that  line.  If  only  he  had  stamps  for 
them  !  Then  the  certitude  of  his  ultimate  success  rose  up 
in  him,  an  able  ally  of  hunger,  and  with  a  quick  move 
ment  he  slipped  the  coin  into  his  pocket. 

"  I'll  pay  you  back,  Gertrude,  a  hundred  times  over,"  he 
gulped  out,  his  throat  painfully  contracted  and  in  his  eyes 
a  swift  hint  of  moisture. 

"  Mark  my  words !  "  he  cried  with  abrupt  positiveness. 
"  Before  the  year  is  out  I'll  put  an  even  hundred  of  those 
little  yellow-boys  into  your  hand.  I  don't  ask  you  to 
believe  me.  All  you  have  to  do  is  wait  and  see." 

Nor  did  she  believe.  Her  incredulity  made  her  uncom 
fortable,  and  failing  of  other  expedient,  she  said:  — 

"  I  know  you're  hungry,  Mart.  It's  sticking  out  all 
over  you.  Come  in  to  meals  any  time.  I'll  send  one 
of  the  children  to  tell  you  when  Mr.  Higginbotham  ain't 
to  be  there.  An'  Mart  —  " 

He  waited,  though  he  knew  in  his  secret  heart  what  she 
was  about  to  say,  so  visible  was  her  thought  process  to 
him. 

"  Don't  you  think  it's  about  time  you  got  a  job  ?  '* 

"You  don't  think  I'll  win  out?  "  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Nobody  has  faith  in  me,  Gertrude,  except  myself." 
His  voice  was  passionately  rebellious.  "  I've  done  good 
work  already,  plenty  of  it,  and  sooner  or  later  it  will  sell." 


MARTIN  EDEN  277 

"  How  do  you  know  it  is  good  ?  " 

"  Because  —  "  He  faltered  as  the  whole  vast  field  of  lit 
erature  and  the  history  of  literature  stirred  in  his  brain  and 
pointed  the  futility  of  his  attempting  to  convey  to  her  the 
reasons  for  his  faith.  "  Well,  because  it's  better  than 
ninety-nine  per  cent  of  what  is  published  in  the  maga 
zines." 

"  I  wish't  you'd  listen  to  reason,"  she  answered  feebly, 
but  with  unwavering  belief  in  the  correctness  of  her  diag 
nosis  of  what  was  ailing  him.  "  I  wish't  you'd  listen  to 
reason,"  she  repeated,  "  an'  come  to  dinner  to-morrow." 

After  Martin  had  helped  her  on  the  car,  he  hurried  to 
the  post-office  and  invested  three  of  the  five  dollars  in 
stamps;  and  when,  later  in  the  day,  on  the  way  to  the 
Morse  home,  he  stopped  in  at  the  post-office  to  weigh  a 
large  number  of  long,  bulky  envelopes,  he  affixed  to  them 
all  the  stamps  save  three  of  the  two-cent  denomination. 

It  proved  a  momentous  night  for  Martin,  for  after  din 
ner  he  met  Russ  Brissenden.  How  he  chanced  to  come 
there,  whose  friend  he  was  or  what  acquaintance  brought 
him,  Martin  did  not  know.  Nor  had  he  the  curiosity  to 
inquire  about  him  of  Ruth.  In  short,  Brissenden  struck 
Martin  as  ansemic  and  feather-brained,  and  was  promptly 
dismissed  from  his  mind.  An  hour  later  he  decided  that 
Brissenden  was  a  boor  as  well,  what  of  the  way  he  prowled 
about  from  one  room  to  another,  staring  at  the  pictures  or 
poking  his  nose  into  books  and  magazines  he  picked  up 
from  the  table  or  drew  from  the  shelves.  Though  a  stran 
ger  in  the  house  he  finally  isolated  himself  in  the  midst 
of  the  company,  huddling  into  a  capacious  Morris  chair 
and  reading  steadily  from  a  thin  volume  he  had  drawn 
from  his  pocket.  As  he  read,  he  abstractedly  ran  his 
fingers,  with  a  caressing  movement,  through  his  hair. 
Martin  noticed  him  no  more  that  evening,  except  once 
when  he  observed  him  chaffing  with  great  apparent  success 
with  several  of  the  young  women. 

It  chanced  that  when  Martin  was  leaving,  he  overtook 
Brissenden  already  half  down  the  walk  to  the  street. 

"  Hello,  is  that  you  ?  "  Martin  said. 


278  MARTIN  EDEN 

The  other  replied  with  an  ungracious  grunt,  but  swung 
alongside.  Martin  made  no  further  attempt  at  conversa 
tion,  and  for  several  blocks  unbroken  silence  lay  upon  them. 

"  Pompous  old  ass!  " 

The  suddenness  and  the  virulence  of  the  exclamation 
startled  Martin.  He  felt  amused,  and  at  the  same  time 
was  aware  of  a  growing  dislike  for  the  other. 

"  What  do  you  go  to  such  a  place  for  ?  "  was  abruptly 
flung  at  him  after  another  block  of  silence. 

"  Why  do  you  ?  "  Martin  countered. 

"  Bless  me,  I  don't  know,"  came  back.  "  At  least  this 
is  my  first  indiscretion.  There  are  twenty-four  hours  in 
each  day,  and  I  must  spend  them  somehow.  Come  and 
have  a  drink." 

"  All  right,"  Martin  answered. 

The  next  moment  he  was  nonplussed  by  the  readiness  of 
his  acceptance.  At  home  was  several  hours'  hack-work 
waiting  for  him  before  he  went  to  bed,  and  after  he  went 
to  bed  there  was  a  volume  of  Weismann  waiting  for  him, 
to  say  nothing  of  Herbert  Spencer's  Autobiography,  which 
was  as  replete  for  him  with  romance  as  any  thrilling  novel. 
Why  should  he  waste  any  time  with  this  man  he  did  not 
like  ?  was  his  thought.  And  yet,  it  was  not  so  much  the 
man  nor  the  drink  as  was  it  what  was  associated  with  the 
drink  —  the  bright  lights,  the  mirrors  and  dazzling  array 
of  glasses,  the  warm  and  glowing  faces  and  the  resonant 
hum  of  the  voices  of  men.  That  was  it,  it  was  the  voices 
of  men,  optimistic  men,  men  who  breathed  success  and 
spent  their  money  for  drinks  like  men.  He  was  lonely, 
that  was  what  was  the  matter  with  him;  that  was  why  he 
had  snapped  at  the  invitation  as  a  bonita  strikes  at  a  white 
rag  on  a  hook.  Not  since  with  Joe,  at  Shelly  Hot  Springs, 
with  the  one  exception  of  the  wine  he  took  with  the  Portu 
guese  grocer,  had  Martin  had  a  drink  at  a  public  bar. 
Mental  exhaustion  did  not  produce  a  craving  for  liquor 
such  as  physical  exhaustion  did,  and  he  had  felt  no  need  for 
it.  But  just  now  he  felt  desire  for  the  drink,  or,  rather, 
for  the  atmosphere  wherein  drinks  were  dispensed  and  dis 
posed  of.  Such  a  place  was  the  Grotto,  where  Brissenden 


MARTIN  EDEN  279 

and  he  lounged  in  capacious  leather  chairs  and  drank 
Scotch  and  soda. 

They  talked.  They  talked  about  many  things,  and  now 
Brissenden  and  now  Martin  took  turn  in  ordering  Scotch 
and  soda.  Martin,  who  was  extremely  strong-headed,  mar 
velled  at  the  other's  capacity  for  liquor,  and  ever  and  anon 
broke  off  to  marvel  at  the  other's  conversation.  He  was 
not  long  in  assuming  that  Brissenden  knew  everything, 
and  in  deciding  that  here  was  the  second  intellectual  man 
he  had  met.  But  he  noted  that  Brissenden  had  what 
Professor  Caldwell  lacked  —  namely,  fire,  the  flashing  in 
sight  and  perception,  the  flaming  uncontrol  of  genius. 
Living  language  flowed  from  him.  His  thin  lips,  like 
the  dies  of  a  machine,  stamped  out  phrases  that  cut  and 
stung  ;  or  again,  pursing  caressingly  about  the  inchoate 
sound  they  articulated,  the  thin  lips  shaped  soft  and  vel 
vety  things,  mellow  phrases  of  glow  and  glory,  of  haunt 
ing  beauty,  reverberant  of  the  mystery  and  inscrutableness 
of  life;  and  yet  again  the  tbin  lips  were  like  a  bugle,  from 
which  rang  the  crash  and  tumult  of  cosmic  strife,  phrases 
that  sounded  clear  as  silver,  that  were  luminous  as  starry 
spaces,  that  epitomized  the  final  word  of  science  and  yet 
said  something  more  —  the  poet's  word,  the  transcendental 
truth,  elusive  and  without  words  which  could  express,  and 
which  none  the  less  found  expression  in  the  subtle  and 
all  but  ungraspable  connotations  of  common  words.  He,  by 
some  wonder  of  vision,  saw  beyond  the  farthest  outpost 
of  empiricism,  where  was  no  language  for  narration,  and 
yet,  by  some  golden  miracle  of  speech,  investing  known 
words  with  unknown  significances,  he  conveyed  to  Mar 
tin's  conscious aess  messages  that  were  incommunicable  to 
ordinary  souls. 

Martin  forgot  his  first  impression  of  dislike.  Here  was 
the  best  the  books  had  to  offer  coming  true.  Here  was 
an  intelligence,  a  living  man  for  him  to  look  up  to.  "  I 
am  down  in  the  dirt  at  your  feet,"  Martin  repeated  to 
himself  again  and  again. 

"  You've  studied  biology,"  he  said  aloud,  in  significant 
allusion. 


280  MARTIN  EDEN 

To  his  surprise  Brissenden  shook  his  head. 

"  But  you  are  stating  truths  that  are  substantiated  only 
by  biology,"  Martin  insisted,  and  was  rewarded  by  a  blank 
stare.  "Your  conclusions  are  in  line  with  the  books 
which  you  must  have  read." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  was  the  answer.  "  That  my 
smattering  of  knowledge  should  enable  me  to  short-cut 
my  way  to  truth  is  most  reassuring.  As  for  myself,  I 
never  bother  to  find  out  if  I  am  right  or  not.  It  is  all 
valueless  anyway.  Man  can  never  know  the  ultimate 
verities." 

"  You  are  a  disciple  of  Spencer  !  "  Martin  cried  trium 
phantly. 

"  I  haven't  read  him  since  adolescence,  and  all  I  read 
then  was  his  '  Education.' " 

"  I  wish  I  could  gather  knowledge  as  carelessly,"  Mar 
tin  broke  out  half  an  hour  later.  He  had  been  closely 
analyzing  Brissenden's  mental  equipment.  "  You  are  a 
sheer  dogmatist,  and  that's  what  makes  it  so  marvellous. 
You  state  dogmatically  the  latest  facts  which  science  has 
been  able  to  establish  only  by  a  posteriori  reasoning. 
You  jump  at  correct  conclusions.  You  certainly  short-cut 
with  a  vengeance.  You  feel  your  way  with  the  speed  of 
light,  by  some  hyperrational  process,  to  truth." 

"  Yes,  that  was  what  used  to  bother  Father  Joseph,  and 
Brother  Button,"  Brissenden  replied.  "  Oh,  no,"  he 
added  $  "  I  am  not  anything.  It  was  a  lucky  trick  of  fate 
that  sent  me  to  a  Catholic  college  for  my  education. 
Where  did  you  pick  up  what  you  know  ?  " 

And  while  Martin  told  him,  he  was  busy  studying 
Brissenden,  ranging  from  his  long,  lean,  a  istocratic  face 
and  drooping  shoulders  to  the  overcoat  on  a  neigh 
boring  chair,  its  pockets  sagged  and  bulged  by  the 
freightage  of  many  books.  Brissenden's  face  and  long, 
slender  hands  were  browned  by  the  sun  —  excessively 
browned,  Martin  thought.  This  sunburn  bothered  Martin. 
It  was  patent  that  Brissenden  was  no  outdoor  man. 
Then  how  had  he  been  ravaged  by  the  sun  ?  Something 
morbid  and  significant  attached  to  that  sunburn,  was  Mar- 


MARTIN  EDEN  281 

tin's  thought  as  he  returned  to  a  study  of  the  face,  narrow, 
with  high  cheek-bones  and  cavernous  hollows,  and  graced 
with  as  delicate  and  tine  an  aquiline  nose  as  Martin  had 
ever  seen.  There  was  nothing  remarkable  about  the  size 
of  the  eyes.  They  were  neither  large  nor  small,  while 
their  color  was  a  nondescript  brown ;  but  in  them  smoul 
dered  a  fire,  or,  rather,  lurked  an  expression  dual  and 
strangely  contradictory.  Defiant,  indomitable,  even  harsh 
to  excess,  they  at  the  same  time  aroused  pity.  Martin 
found  himself  pitying  him  he  knew  not  why,  though  he 
was  soon  to  learn. 

"  Oh,  I'm  a  lunger,"  Brissenden  announced,  offhand,  a 
little  later,  having  already  stated  that  he  came  from 
Arizona.  "  I've  been  down  there  a  couple  of  years  living 
on  the  climate." 

"  Aren't  you  afraid  to  venture  it  up  in  this  climate  ?  " 

"Afraid?" 

There  was  no  special  emphasis  of  his  repetition  of 
Martin's  word.  But  Martin  saw  in  that  ascetic  face  the 
advertisement  that  there  was  nothing  of  which  it  was 
afraid.  The  eyes  had  narrowed  till  they  were  eagle-like, 
and  Martin  almost  caught  his  breath  as  he  noted  the 
eagle  beak  with  its  dilated  nostrils,  defiant,  assertive, 
aggressive.  Magnificent,  was  what  he  commented  to 
himself,  his  blood  thrilling  at  the  sight.  Aloud,  he 
quoted  :  — 

" '  Under  the  bludgeoning  of  Chance 
My  head  is  bloody  but  unbowed.' " 

"You  like  Henley,"  Brissenden  said,  his  expression 
changing  swiftly  to  large  graciousness  and  tenderness. 
"  Of  course,  I  couldn't  have  expected  anything  else  of 
you.  Ah,  Henley !  A  brave  soul.  He  stands  out 
among  contemporary  rhymesters  —  magazine  rhymesters  — 
as  a  gladiator  stands  out  in  the  midst  of  a  band  of 
eunuchs." 

"You  don't  like  the  magazines,"  Martin  softly  im 
peached. 

"  Do  you  ?  "  was  snarled  back  at  him  so  savagely  as  to 
startle  him. 


282  MARTIN  EDEN 

"I  —  I  write,  or,  rather,  try  to  write,  for  the  maga 
zines,"  Martin  faltered. 

"  That's  better,"  was  the  mollified  rejoinder.  "  You  try 
to  write,  but  you  don't  succeed.  I  respect  and  admire 
your  failure.  I  know  what  you  write.  I  can  see  it  with 
half  an  eye,  and  there's  one  ingredient  in  it  that  shuts  it 
out  of  the  magazines.  It's  guts,  and  magazines  have  no 
use  for  that  particular  commodity.  What  they  want  is 
wish-wash  and  slush,  and  God  knows  they  get  it,  but  not 
from  you." 

"  I'm  not  above  hack-work,"  Martin  contended. 

"  On  the  contrary  —  "  Brissenden  paused  and  ran  an 
insolent  eye  over  Martin's  objective  poverty,  passing  from 
the  well-worn  tie  and  the  saw-edged  collar  to  the  shiny 
sleeves  of  the  coat  and  on  to  the  slight  fray  of  one  cuff, 
winding  up  and  dwelling  upon  Martin's  sunken  cheeks. 
"  On  the  contrary,  hack-work  is  above  you,  so  far  above 
you  that  you  can  never  hope  to  rise  to  it.  Why,  man, 
I  could  insult  you  by  asking  you  to  have  something  to 
eat." 

Martin  felt  the  heat  in  his  face  of  the  involuntary 
blood,  and  Brissenden  laughed  triumphantly. 

"  A  full  man  is  not  insulted  by  such  an  invitation,"  he 
concluded. 

"  You  are  a  devil,"  Martin  cried  irritably. 

"Anyway,  I  didn't  ask  you." 

"  You  didn't  dare." 

*4Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that.     I  invite  you  now." 

Brissenden  half  rose  from  his  chair  as  he  spoke,  as  if 
with  the  intention  of  departing  to  the  restaurant  forth 
with. 

Martin's  fists  were  tight-clenched,  and  his  blood  wa& 
drumming  in  his  temples. 

"  Bosco  !  He  eats  'em  alive !  Eats  'em  alive !  "  Bris 
senden  exclaimed,  imitating  the  spieler  of  a  locally  famous- 
snake-eater. 

"  I  could  certainly  eat  you  alive,"  Martin  said,  in  turn 
running  insolent  eyes  over  the  other's  disease-ravaged 
frame. 


MARTIN  EDEN  283 

"  Only  I'm  not  worthy  of  it  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,"  Martin  considered,  "  because  the 
incident  is  not  worthy."  He  broke  into  a  laugh,  hearty 
and  wholesome.  "  I  confess  you  made  a  fool  of  me,  Bris- 
senden.  That  I  am  hungry  and  you  are  aware  of  it  are 
only  ordinary  phenomena,  and  there's  no  disgrace.  You 
see,  I  laugh  at  the  conventional  little  moralities  of  the 
herd ;  then  you  drift  by,  say  a  sharp,  true  word,  and  im 
mediately  I  am  the  slave  of  the  same  little  moralities." 

"  You  were  insulted,"  Brissenden  affirmed. 

"I  certainly  was,  a  moment  ago.  The  prejudice  of 
early  youth,  you  know.  I  learned  such  things  then,  and 
they  cheapen  what  I  have  since  learned.  They  are  the 
skeletons  in  my  particular  closet." 

"  But  you've  got  the  door  shut  on  them  now  ?  " 

"  I  certainly  have." 

"Sure?" 

"Sure." 

"  Then  let's  go  and  get  something  to  eat." 

"  I'll  go  you,"  Martin  answered,  attempting  to  pay  for 
the  current  Scotch  and  soda  with  the  last  change  from 
his  two  dollars  and  seeing  the  waiter  bullied  by  Brissen 
den  into  putting  that  change  back  on  the  table. 

Martin  pocketed  it  with  a  grimace,  and  felt  for  a 
moment  the  kindly  weight  of  Brissenden's  hand  upon 
his  shoulder. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

PROMPTLY,  the  next  afternoon,  Maria  was  excited  by 
Martin's  second  visitor.  But  she  did  not  lose  her  head 
this  time,  for  she  seated  Brissenden  in  her  parlor's  grandeur 
of  respectability. 

"  Hope  you  don't  mind  my  coming  ? "  Brissenden 
began. 

"  No,  no,  not  at  all,"  Martin  answered,  shaking  hands 
and  waving  him  to  the  solitary  chair,  himself  taking  to 
the  bed.  "  But  how  did  you  know  where  I  lived  ? '' 

"  Called  up  the  Morses.  Miss  Morse  answered  the 
'phone.  And  here  I  am."  He  tugged  at  his  coat  pockejt 
and  flung  a  thin  volume  on  the  table.  "  There's  a  book, 
by  a  poet.  Read  it  and  keep  it."  And  then,  in  reply  to 
Martin's  protest :  "  What  have  I  to  do  with  books  ?  I 
had  another  hemorrhage  this  morning.  Got  any  whiskey  ? 
No,  of  course  not.  Wait  a  minute." 

He  was  off  and  away.  Martin  watched  his  long  figure 
go  down  the  outside  steps,  and,  on  turning  to  close  the 
gate,  noted  with  a  pang  the  shoulders,  which  had  once 
been  broad,  drawn  in  now  over  the  collapsed  ruin  of  the 
chest.  Martin  got  two  tumblers,  and  fell  to  reading  the 
book  of  verse,  Henry  Vaughn  Marlow's  latest  collection. 

"  No  Scotch,"  Brissenden  announced  on  his  return. 
"  The  beggar  sells  nothing  but  American  whiskey.  But 
here's  a  quart  of  it." 

"  I'll  send  one  of  the  youngsters  for  lemons,  and  we'll 
make  a  toddy,"  Martin  offered. 

"  I  wonder  what  a  book  like  that  will  earn  Mario w  ?  " 
he  went  on,  holding  up  the  volume  in  question. 

"  Possibly  fifty  dollars,"  came  the  answer.  "  Though 
he's  lucky  if  he  pulls  even  on  it,  or  if  he  can  inveigle  a 
publisher  to  risk  bringing  it  out." 

"  Then  one  can't  make  a  living  out  of  poetry  ?  n 

284 


MARTIN  EDEN  285 

Martin's  tone  and  face  alike  showed  his  dejection. 

"  Certainly  not.  What  fool  expects  to  ?  Out  of  rhym 
ing,  yes.  There's  Bruce,  and  Virginia  Spring,  and  Sedg- 
wick.  They  do  very  nicely.  But  poetry  —  do  you  know 
how  Vaughn  Marlow  makes  his  living  ?  —  teaching  in  a 
boys'  cramming- joint  down  in  Pennsylvania,  and  of  all 
private  little  hells  such  a  billet  is  the  limit.  I  wouldn't 
trade  places  with  him  if  he  had  fifty  years  of  life  before 
him.  And  yet  his  work  stands  out  from  the  ruck  of  the 
contemporary  versifiers  as  a  balas  ruby  among  carrots. 
And  the  reviews  he  gets !  Damn  them,  all  of  them,  the 
crass  manikins!  " 

"  Too  much  is  written  by  the  men  who  can't  write  about 
the  men  who  do  write,"  Martin  concurred.  "  Why,  I  was 
appalled  at  the  quantities  of  rubbish  written  about  Ste 
venson  and  his  work." 

"  Ghouls  and  harpies!  "  Brissenden  snapped  out  with 
clicking  teeth.  "  Yes,  I  know  the  spawn  —  complacently 
pecking  at  him  for  his  Father  Damien  letter,  analyzing 
him,  weighing  him  —  " 

"  Measuring  him  by  the  yardstick  of  their  own  miser 
able  egos,"  Martin  broke  in. 

"  Yes,  that's  it,  a  good  phrase,  —  mouthing  and  beslim- 
ing  the  True,  and  Beautiful,  and  Good,  and  finally  patting 
Mm  on  the  back  and  saying,  'Good  dog,  Fido.'  Faugh  ! 
4  The  little  chattering  daws  of  men,'  Richard  Realf  called 
them  the  night  he  died." 

"  Pecking  at  star-dust,"  Martin  took  up  the  strain 
warmly;  "  at  the  meteoric  flight  of  the  master-men.  I 
once  wrote  a  squib  on  them  —  the  critics,  or  the  reviewers, 
rather." 

"^et's  see  it,"  Brissenden  begged  eagerly. 

So  Martin  unearthed  a  carbon  copy  of  "  Star-dust,"  and 
during  the  reading  of  it  Brissenden  chuckled,  rubbed  his 
hands,  and  forgot  to  sip  his  toddy. 

"  Strikes  me  you're  a  bit  of  star-dust  yourself,  flung  into 
a  world  of  cowled  gnomes  who  cannot  see,"  was  his  com 
ment  at  the  end  of  it.  "  Of  course  it  was  snapped  up  by 
the  first  magazine  ?  " 


286  MARTIN  EDEN 

Martin  ran  over  the  pages  of  his  manuscript  book. 

"  It  has  been  refused  by  twenty-seven  of  them." 

Brissenden  essayed  a  long  and  hearty  laugh,  but  broke 
down  in  a  fit  of  coughing. 

"  Say,  you  needn't  tell  me  you  haven't  tackled  poetry," 
he  gasped.  "  Let  me  see  some  of  it." 

"  Don't  read  it  now,"  Martin  pleaded.  "  I  want  to 
talk  with  you.  I'll  make  up  a  bundle  and  you  can  take 
it  home." 

Brissenden  departed  with  the  "  Love-cycle,"  and  "  The 
Peri  and  the  Pearl,"  returning  next  day  to  greet  Martin 
with  :  — 

"  I  want  more." 

Not  only  did  he  assure  Martin  that  he  was  a  poet,  but 
Martin  learned  that  Brissenden  also  was  one.  He  was 
swept  off  his  feet  by  the  other's  work,  and  astounded  that 
no  attempt  had  been  made  to  publish  it. 

"A  plague  on  all  their  houses  I  "  was  Brissenden's 
answer  to  Martin's  volunteering  to  market  his  work  for 
him.  "  Love  Beauty  for  its  own  sake,"  was  his  counsel, 
"  and  leave  the  magazines  alone.  Back  to  your  ships  and 
your  sea  —  that's  my  advice  to  you,  Martin  Eden.  What 
do  you  want  in  these  sick  and  rotten  cities  of  men  ?  You 
are  cutting  your  throat  every  day  you  waste  in  them  try 
ing  to  prostitute  beauty  to  the  needs  of  magazinedom. 
What  was  it  you  quoted  me  the  other  day  ?  —  Oh,  yes, 
4  Man,  the  latest  of  the  ephemera.'  Well,  what  do  you, 
the  latest  of  the  ephemera,  want  with  fame  ?  If  you  got 
it,  it  would  be  poison  to  you.  You  are  too  simple,  too 
elemental,  and  too  rational,  by  my  faith,  to  prosper  on 
such  pap.  I  hope  you  never  do  sell  a  line  to  the  maga 
zines.  Beauty  is  the  only  master  to  serve.  Serve  her 
and  damn  the  multitude  !  Success  I  What  in  hell's  suc 
cess  if  it  isn't  right  there  in  your  Stevenson  sonnet,  which 
outranks  Henley's  *  Apparition,'  in  that  '  Love-cycle,'  in 
those  sea-poems  ? 

"  It  is  not  in  what  you  succeed  in  doing  that  you  get 
your  joy,  but  in  the  doing  of  it.  You  can't  tell  me.  I 
know  it.  You  know  it.  Beauty  hurts  you.  It  is  an 


MARTIN  EDEN  287 

everlasting  pain  in  you,  a  wound  that  does  not  heal,  a 
knife  of  flame.  Why  should  you  palter  with  magazines  ? 
Let  beauty  be  your  end.  Why  should  you  mint  beauty 
into  gold  ?  Anyway,  you  can't;  so  there's  no  use  in  my 
getting  excited  over  it.  You  can  read  the  magazines  for 
a  thousand  years  and  you  won't  find  the  value  of  one 
line  of  Keats.  Leave  fame  and  coin  alone,  sign  away  on 
a  ship  to-morrow,  and  go  back  to  your  sea." 

"  Not  for  fame,  but  for  love,"  Martin  laughed.  "  Love 
seems  to  have  no  place  in  your  Cosmos  ;  in  mine,  Beauty 
is  the  handmaiden  of  Love." 

Brissenden  looked  at  him  pityingly  and  admiringly. 
"  You  are  so  young,  Martin  boy,  so  young.  You  will 
flutter  high,  but  your  wings  are  of  the  finest  gauze,  dusted 
with  the  fairest  pigments.  Do  not  scorch  them.  But 
of  course  you  have  scorched  them  already.  It  required 
some  glorified  petticoat  to  account  for  that  '  Love-cycle,* 
and  that's  the  shame  of  it." 

"  It  glorifies  love  as  well  as  the  petticoat,"  Martin 
laughed. 

"  The  philosophy  of  madness,"  was  the  retort.  "  So 
have  I  assured  myself  when  wandering  in  hasheesh 
dreams.  But  beware.  These  bourgeois  cities  will  kill 
you.  Look  at  that  den  of  traitors  where  I  met  you. 
Dry  rot  is  no  name  for  it.  One  can't  keep  his  sanity 
in  such  an  atmosphere.  It's  degrading.  There's  not  one 
of  them  who  is  not  degrading,  man  and  woman,  all  of  them 
animated  stomachs  guided  by  the  high  intellectual  and 
artistic  impulses  of  clams  —  V 

He  broke  off  suddenly  and  regarded  Martin.  Then, 
with  a  flash  of  divination,  he  saw  the  situation.  The  ex 
pression  on  his  face  turned  to  wondering  horror. 

"  And  you  wrote  that  tremendous  '  Love-cycle  '  to  her 
—  that  pale,  shrivelled,  female  thing  !  " 

The  next  instant  Martin's  right  hand  had  shot  to  a 
throttling  clutch  on  his  throat,  and  he  was  being  shaken 
till  his  teeth  rattled.  But  Martin,  looking  into  his  eyes, 
saw  no  fear  there,  —  naught  but  a  curious  and  mocking 
devil.  Martin  remembered  himself,  and  flung  Brissen- 


288  MARTIN  EDEN 

den,  by  the  neck,  sidelong  upon  the  bed,  at  the  same 
moment  releasing  his  hold. 

Brissenden  panted  and  gasped  painfully  for  a  moment, 
then  began  to  chuckle. 

"You  had  made  me  eternally  your  debtor  had  you 
shaken  out  the  flame,"  he  said. 

*'  My  nerves  are  on  a  hair-trigger  these  days,"  Martin 
apologized.  "  Hope  I  didn't  hurt  you.  Here,  let  me 
mix  a  fresh  toddy." 

"  Ah,  you  young  Greek  !  "  Brissenden  went  on.  "  I 
wonder  if  you  take  just  pride  in  that  body  of  yours.  You 
are  devilish  strong.  You  are  a  young  panther,  a  lion 
cub.  Well,  well,  it  is  you  who  must  pay  for  that 
strength." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  Martin  asked  curiously,  pass 
ing  nim  a  glass.  "  Here,  down  this  and  be  good." 

"  Because  —  "  Brissenden  sipped  his  toddy  and  smiled 
appreciation  of  it.  "  Because  of  the  women.  They  will 
worry  you  until  you  die,  as  they  have  already  worried 
you,  or  else  I  was  born  yesterday.  Now  there's  no  use  in 
your  choking  me;  I'm  going  to  have  my  say.  This  is 
undoubtedly  your  calf  love  ;  but  for  Beauty's  sake  show 
better  taste  next  time.  What  under  heaven  do  you  want 
with  a  daughter  of  the  bourgeoisie  ?  Leave  them  alone. 
Pick  out  some  great,  wanton  flame  of  a  woman,  who 
laughs  at  life  and  jeers  at  death  and  loves  one  while 
she  may.  There  are  such  women,  and  they  will  love  you 
just  as  readily  as  any  pusillanimous  product  of  bourgeois- 
sheltered  life." 

"  Pusillanimous  ?  "  Martin  protested. 

"Just  so,  pusillanimous;  prattling  out  little  moralities 
that  have  been  prattled  into  them,  and  afraid  to  live  life. 
They  will  love  you,  Martin,  but  they  will  love  their  little 
moralities  more.  What  you  want  is  the  magnificent 
abandon  of  life,  the  great  free  souls,  the  blazing  butterflies 
and  not  the  little  gray  moths.  Oh,  you  will  grow  tired  of 
them,  too,  of  all  the  female  things,  if  you  are  unlucky 
enough  to  live.  But  you  won't  live.  You  won't  go  back 
to  your  ships  and  sea;  therefore,  you'll  hang  around  these 


MARTIN  EDEN  289 

pest-holes  of  cities  until  your  bones  are  rotten,  and  then 
you'll  die." 

"  You  can  lecture  me,  but  you  can't  make  me  talk  back," 
Martin  said.  "After  all,  you  have  but  the  wisdom  of 
your  temperament,  and  the  wisdom  of  my  temperament  is 
just  as  unimpeachable  as  yours." 

They  disagreed  about  love,  and  the  magazines,  and  many 
things,  but  they  liked  each  other,  and  on  Martin's  part  it  was 
no  less  than  a  profound  liking.  Day  after  day  they  were 
together,  if  for  no  more  than  the  hour  Brissenden  spent 
in  Martin's  stuffy  room.  Brissenden  never  arrived  with 
out  his  quart  of  whiskey,  and  when  they  dined  together 
down-town,  he  drank  Scotch  and  soda  throughout  the 
meal.  He  invariably  paid  the  way  for  both,  and  it  was 
through  him  that  Martin  learned  the  refinements  of  food, 
drank  his  first  champagne,  and  made  acquaintance  with 
Rhenish  wines. 

But  Brissenden  was  always  an  enigma.  With  the  face 
of  an  ascetic,  he  was,  in  all  the  failing  blood  of  him,  a 
frank  voluptuary.  He  was  unafraid  to  die,  bitter  and 
cynical  of  all  the  ways  of  living  ;  and  yet,  dying,  he  loved 
life,  to  the  last  atom  of  it.  He  was  possessed  by  a  mad 
ness  to  live,  to  thrill,  "  to  squirm  my  little  space  in  the 
cosmic  dust  whence  I  came,"  as  he  phrased  it  once  him 
self.  He  had  tampered  with  drugs  and  done  many 
strange  things  in  quest  of  new  thrills,  new  sensations. 
As  he  told  Martin,  he  had  once  gone  three  days  without 
water,  had  done  so  voluntarily,  in  order  to  experi 
ence  the  exquisite  delight  of  such  a  thirst  assuaged. 
Who  or  what  he  was,  Martin  never  learned.  He  was  a 
man  without  a  past,  whose  future  was  the  imminent  grave 
and  whose  present  was  a  bitter  fever  of  living. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

MARTIN  was  steadily  losing  his  battle.  Economize  as  he 
would,  the  earnings  from  hack-work  did  not  balance  ex 
penses.  Thankgiving  found  him  with  his  black  suit  in 
pawn  and  unable  to  accept  the  Morses'  invitation  to  din 
ner.  Ruth  was  not  made  happy  by  his  reason  for  not 
coming,  and  the  corresponding  effect  on  him  was  one  of 
desperation.  He  told  her  that  he  would  come,  after  all; 
that  he  would  go  over  to  San  Francisco,  to  the  Transcon 
tinental  office,  collect  the  five  dollars  due  him,  and  with  it 
redeem  his  suit  of  clothes. 

In  the  morning  he  borrowed  ten  cents  from  Maria.  He 
would  have  borrowed  it,  by  preference,  from  Brissenden, 
but  that  erratic  individual  had  disappeared.  Two  weeks 
had  passed  since  Martin  had  seen  him,  and  he  vainly  cud 
gelled  his  brains  for  some  cause  of  offence.  The  ten  cents 
carried  Martin  across  the  ferry  to  San  Francisco,  and  as 
he  walked  up  Market  Street  he  speculated  upon  his  pre 
dicament  in  case  he  failed  to  collect  the  money.  There 
would  then  be  no  way  for  him  to  return  to  Oakland,  and 
he  knew  no  one  in  San  Francisco  from  whom  to  borrow 
another  ten  cents. 

The  door  to  the  Transcontinental  office  was  ajar,  and 
Martin,  in  the  act  of  opening  it,  was  brought  to  a  sudden 
pause  by  a  loud  voice  from  within,  which  exclaimed  :  — 

"  But  that  is  not  the  question,  Mr.  Ford."  (Ford,  Mar 
tin  knew,  from  his  correspondence,  to  be  the  editor's  name.) 
"  The  question  is,  are  you  prepared  to  pay  ?  —  cash,  and 
cash  down,  I  mean?  I  am  not  interested  in  the  prospects 
of  the  Transcontinental  and  what  you  expect  to  make  it 
next  year.  What  I  want  is  to  be  paid  for  what*  I  do. 
And  I  tell  you,  right  now,  the  Christmas  Transcontinental 
don't  go  to  press  till  I  have  the  money  in  my  hand.  Good 
day.  When  you  get  the  money,  come  and  see  me." 

290 


MARTIN  EDEN  291 

The  door  jerked  open,  and  the  man  flung  past  Martin 
with  an  angry  countenance  and  went  down  the  corridor, 
muttering  curses  and  clenching  his  fists.  Martin  decided 
no4"  to  enter  immediately,  and  lingered  in  the  hallways  for 
a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Then  he  shoved  the  door  open  and 
walked  in.  It  was  a  new  experience,  the  first  time  he  had 
been  inside  an  editorial  office.  Cards  evidently  were  not 
necessary  in  that  office,  for  the  boy  carried  word  to  an  in 
ner  room  that  there  was  a  man  who  wanted  to  see  Mr. 
Ford.  Returning,  the  boy  beckoned  him  from  halfway 
across  the  room  and  led  him  to  the  private  office,  the 
editorial  sanctum.  Martin's  first  impression  was  of  the 
disorder  and  cluttered  confusion  of  the  room.  Next  he 
noticed  a  bewhiskered,  youthful-looking  man,  sitting  at  a 
roll-top  desk,  who  regarded  him  curiously.  Martin  mar 
velled  at  the  calm  repose  of  his  face.  It  was  evident  that 
the  squabble  with  the  printer  had  not  affected  his  equa 
nimity. 

"I  —  I  am  Martin  Eden,"  Martin  began  the  conversa 
tion.  ("And  I  want  my  five  dollars,"  was  what  he  would 
have  liked  to  say.) 

But  this  was  his  first  editor,  and  under  the  circumstances 
he  did  not  desire  to  scare  him  too  abruptly.  To  his  sur 
prise,  Mr.  Ford  leaped  into  the  air  with  a  "  You  don't  say 
so!  "  and  the  next  moment,  with  both  hands,  was  shaking 
Martin's  hand  effusively. 

"  Can't  say  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you,  Mr.  Eden.  Often 
wondered  what  you  were  like." 

Here  he  held  Martin  off  at  arm's  length  and  ran  his 
beaming  eyes  over  Martin's  second-best  suit,  which  was 
also  his  worst  suit,  and  which  was  ragged  and  past  repair, 
though  the  trousers  showed  the  careful  crease  he  had  put 
in  with  Maria's  flat-irons. 

"  I  confess,  though,  I  conceived  you  to  be  a  much  older 
man  than  you  are.  Your  story,  you  know,  showed  such 
breadth,  and  vigor,  such  maturity  and  depth  of  thought. 
A  masterpiece,  that  story  —  I  knew  it  when  I  had  read  the 
first  half-dozen  lines.  Let  me  tell  you  how  I  first  read  it. 
But  no ;  first  let  me  introduce  you  to  the  staff." 


292  MARTIN  EDEN 

Still  talking,  Mr.  Ford  led  him  into  the  general  office, 
where  he  introduced  him  to  the  associate  editor,  Mr.  White, 
a  slender,  frail  little  man  whose  hand  seemed  strangely 
cold,  as  if  he  were  suffering  from  a  chill,  and  whose  whisk 
ers  were  sparse  and  silky. 

"  And  Mr.  Ends,  Mr.  Eden.  Mr.  Ends  is  our  business 
manager,  you  know." 

Martin  found  himself  shaking  hands  with  a  cranky-eyed, 
bald-headed  man,  whose  face  looked  youthful  enough  from 
what  little  could  be  seen  of  it,  for  most  of  it  was  covered 
by  a  snow-white  beard,  carefully  trimmed  —  by  his  wife, 
who  did  it  on  Sundays,  at  which  times  she  also  shaved  the 
back  of  his  neck. 

The  three  men  surrounded  Martin,  all  talking  admiringly 
and  at  once,  until  it  seemed  to  him  that  they  were  talking 
against  time  for  a  wager. 

"  We  often  wondered  why  you  didn't  call,"  Mr.  White 
was  saying. 

"  I  didn't  have  the  carfare,  and  I  live  across  the  Bay," 
Martin  answered  bluntly,  with  the  idea  of  showing  them 
his  imperative  need  for  the  money. 

Surely,  he  thought  to  himself,  my  glad  rags  in  them 
selves  are  eloquent  advertisement  of  my  need.  Time  and 
again,  whenever  opportunity  offered,  he  hinted  about  the 
purpose  of  his  business.  But  his  admirers'  ears  were  deaf. 
They  sang  his  praises,  told  him  what  they  had  thought  of 
his  story  at  first  sight,  what  they  subsequently  thought, 
what  their  wives  and  families  thought ;  but  not  one  hint 
did  they  breathe  of  intention  to  pay  him  for  it. 

"  Did  I  tell  you  how  I  first  read  your  story  ? "  Mr.  Ford 
said.  "  Of  course  I  didn't.  I  was  coming  west  from  New 
York,  and  when  the  train  stopped  at  Ogden,  the  train-boy 
on  the  new  run  brought  aboard  the  current  number  of  the 
Transcontinental. " 

My  God  !  Martin  thought ;  you  can  travel  in  a  Pullman 
while  I  starve  for  the  paltry  five  dollars  you  owe  me.,  A 
wave  of  anger  rushed  over  him.  The  wrong  done  him  by 
the  Transcontinental  loomed  colossal,  for  strong  upon 
him  were  all  the  dreary  months  of  vain  yearning,  of  hunger 


MARTIN  EDEN  293 

and  privation,  and  his  present  hunger  awoke  and  gnawed 
at  him,  reminding  him  that  he  had  eaten  nothing  since  the 
day  before,  and  little  enough  then.  For  the  moment  he 
saw  red.  These  creatures  were  not  even  robbers.  They 
were  sneak-thieves.  By  lies  and  broken  promises  they  had 
tricked  him  out  of  his  story.  Well,  he  would  show  them. 
And  a  great  resolve  surged  into  his  will  to  the  effect  that 
he  would  not  leave  the  office  until  he  got  his  money.  He 
remembered,  if  he  did  not  get  it,  that  there  was  no  way 
for  him  to  go  back  to  Oakland.  He  controlled  himself 
with  an  effort,  but  not  before  the  wolfish  expression  of  his 
face  had  awed  and  perturbed  them. 

They  became  more  voluble  than  ever.  Mr.  Ford  started 
anew  to  tell  how  he  had  first  read  "  The  Ring  of  Bells," 
and  Mr.  Ends  at  the  same  time  was  striving  to  repeat  his 
niece's  appreciation  of  "  The  Ring  of  Bells,"  said  niece 
being  a  school-teacher  in  Alameda. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  came  for,"  Martin  said  finally. 
"  To  be  paid  for  that  story  all  of  you  like  so  well.  Five 
dollars,  I  believe,  is  what  you  promised  me  would  be  paid 
on  publication." 

Mr.  Ford,  with  an  expression  on  his  mobile  features  of 
immediate  and  happy  acquiescence,  started  to  reach  for  his 
pocket,  then  turned  suddenly  to  Mr.  Ends,  and  said  that 
he  had  left  his  money  home.  That  Mr.  Ends  resented 
this,  was  patent ;  and  Martin  saw  the  twitch  of  his  arm  as 
if  to  protect  his  trousers  pocket.  Martin  knew  that  the 
money  was  there. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Mr.  Ends,  "  but  I  paid  the  printer 
not  an  hour  ago,  and  he  took  my  ready  change.  It  was 
careless  of  me  to  be  so  short ;  but  the  bill  was  not  yet 
due,  and  the  printer's  request,  as  a  favor,  to  make  an  im 
mediate  advance,  was  quite  unexpected." 

Both  men  looked  expectantly  at  Mr.  "White,  but  that 
gentleman  laughed  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  His  con 
science  was  clean  at  any  rate.  He  had  come  into  the 
Transcontinental  to  learn  magazine-literature,  instead 
of  which  he  had  principally  learned  finance.  The  Trans 
continental  owed  him  four  months'  salary,  and  he  knew 


MARTIN  EDEN 

that  the  printer  must  be  appeased  before  the  associate 
editor. 

"  It's  rather  absurd,  Mr.  Eden,  to  have  caught  us  in 
this  shape,"  Mr.  Ford  preambled  airily.  "All  careless 
ness,  I  assure  you.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do.  We'll 
mail  you  a  check  the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  You 
have  Mr.  Eden's  address,  haven't  you,  Mr.  Ends  ?  " 

Yes,  Mr.  Ends  had  the  address,  and  the  check  would  be 
mailed  the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  Martin's  knowl 
edge  of  banks  and  checks  was  hazy,  but  he  could  see  no 
reason  why  they  should  not  give  him  the  check  on  this 
day  just  as  well  as  on  the  next. 

"  Then  it  is  understood,  Mr.  Eden,  that  we'll  mail  you 
the  check  to-morrow  ?  "  Mr.  Ford  said. 

"I  need  the  money  to-day,"  Martin  answered  stolidly. 

"  The  unfortunate  circumstances  —  if  you  had  chanced 
here  any  other  day,"  Mr.  Ford  began  suavely,  only  to  be 
interrupted  by  Mr.  Ends,  whose  cranky  eyes  justified  them 
selves  in  his  shortness  of  temper. 

"  Mr.  Ford  has  already  explained  the  situation,"  he  said 
with  asperity.  "  And  so  have  I.  The  check  will  be 
mailed  —  " 

"  I  also  have  explained,"  Martin  broke  in,  "  and  I  have 
explained  that  I  want  the  money  to-day." 

He  had  felt  his  pulse  quicken  a  trifle  at  the  business 
manager's  brusqueness,  and  upon  him  he  kept  an  alert 
eye,  for  it  was  in  that  gentleman's  trousers  pocket  that 
he  divined  the  Transcontinental' 8  ready  cash  was  repos 
ing. 

"It  is  too  bad  —  "  Mr.  Ford  began. 

But  at  that  moment,  with  an  impatient  movement,  Mr. 
Ends  turned  as  if  about  to  leave  the  room.  At  the  same 
instant  Martin  sprang  for  him,  clutching  him  by  the  throat 
with  one  hand  in  such  fashion  that  Mr.  Ends'  snow-white 
beard,  still  maintaining  its  immaculate  trimness,  pointed 
ceilingward  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees.  To  the  hor 
ror  of  Mr.  White  and  Mr.  Ford,  they  saw  their  business 
manager  shaken  like  an  Astrakhan  rug. 

"Dig  up,  you  venerable  discourager  of   rising  young 


MARTIN  EDEN  295 

talent !"  Martin  exhorted.  "Dig  up,  or  I'll  shake  it  out 
of  you,  even  if  it's  all  in  nickels."  Then,  to  the  two  af 
frighted  onlookers  :  "  Keep  away  !  If  you  interfere,  some 
body's  liable  to  get  hurt." 

Mr.  Ends  was  choking,  and  it  was  not  until  the  grip  on 
his  throat  was  eased  that  he  was  able  to  signify  his  ac 
quiescence  in  the  digging-up  programme.  All  together, 
after  repeated  digs,  his  trousers  pocket  yielded  four  dol 
lars  and  fifteen  cents. 

"  Inside  out  with  it,"  Martin  commanded. 

An  additional  ten  cents  fell  out.  Martin  counted  the 
result  of  his  raid  a  second  time  to  make  sure. 

"  You  next !  "  he  shouted  at  Mr.  Ford.  "  I  want  sev 
enty-five  cents  more." 

Mr.  Ford  did  not  wait,  but  ransacked  his  pockets,  with 
the  result  of  sixty  cents. 

"  Sure  that  is  all  ? "  Martin  demanded  menacingly, 
possessing  himself  of  it.  "  What  have  you  got  in  your 
vest  pockets  ?  " 

In  token  of  his  good  faith,  Mr.  Ford  turned  two  of  his 
pockets  inside  out.  A  strip  of  cardboard  fell  to  the  floor 
from  one  of  them.  He  recovered  it  and  was  in  the  act  of 
returning  it,  when  Martin  cried :  — 

"  What's  that  ?  • —  A  ferry  ticket  ?  Here,  give  it  to  me. 
It's  worth  ten  cents.  I'll  credit  you  with  it.  I've  now 
got  four  dollars  and  ninety -five  cents,  including  the  ticket. 
Five  cents  is  still  due  me." 

He  looked  fiercely  at  Mr.  White,  and  found  that  fragile 
creature  in  the  act  of  handing  him  a  nickel. 

"  Thank  you,"  Martin  said,  addressing  them  collectively. 
"  I  wish  you  a  good  day." 

"  Robber  !  "  Mr.  Ends  snarled  after  him. 

"  Sneak-thief !  "  Martin  retorted,  slamming  the  door  as 
he  passed  out. 

Martin  was  elated — so  elated  that  when  he  recollected 
that  The  Hornet  owed  him  fifteen  dollars  for  "The  Peri 
and  the  Pearl,"  he  decided  forthwith  to  go  and  collect  it. 
But  The  Hornet  was  run  by  a  set  of  clean-shaven, 
strapping  young  men,  frank  buccaneers  who  robbed 


296  MARTIN  EDEN 

everything  and  everybody,  not  excepting  one  another. 
After  some  breakage  of  the  office  furniture,  the  editor 
(an  ex-college  athlete),  ably  assisted  by  the  business  man 
ager,  an  advertising  agent,  and  the  porter,  succeeded  in 
removing  Martin  from  the  office  and  in  accelerating,  by 
initial  impulse,  his  descent  of  the  first  flight  of  stairs. 

"  Come  again,  Mr.  Eden ;  glad  to  see  you  any  time," 
they  laughed  down  at  him  from  the  landing  above. 

Martin  grinned  as  he  picked  himself  up. 

"  Phew !  "  he  murmured  back.  "  The  Transcontinental 
crowd  were  nanny-goats,  but  you  fellows  are  a  lot  of 
prize-fighters." 

More  laughter  greeted  this. 

"  I  must  say,  Mr.  Eden,"  the  editor  of  The  Hornet  called 
down,  "  that  for  a  poet  you  can  go  some  yourself.  Where 
did  you  learn  that  right  cross  —  if  I  may  ask  ?  " 

"  Where  you  learned  that  half -Nelson,"  Martin  an 
swered.  "Anyway,  you're  going  to  have  a  black  eye." 

"  I  hope  your  neck  doesn't  stiffen  up,"  the  editor  wished 
solicitously.  "  What  do  you  say  we  all  go  out  and  have 
a  drink  on  it  —  not  the  neck,  of  course,  but  the  little 
rough-house?" 

"  I'll  go  you  if  I  lose,"  Martin  accepted. 

And  robbers  and  robbed  drank  together,  amicably 
agreeing  that  the  battle  was  to  the  strong,  and  that  the 
fifteen  dollars  for  "  The  Peri  and  the  Pearl "  belonged  by 
right  to  The  Hornet's  editorial  staff. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

AETHUB  remained  at  the  gate  while  Ruth  climbed 
Maria's  front  steps.  She  heard  the  rapid  click  of  the 
type-writer,  and  when  Martin  let  her  in,  found  him  on  the 
last  page  of  a  manuscript.  She  had  come  to  make  certain 
whether  or  not  he  would  be  at  their  table  for  Thanks 
giving  dinner;  but  before  she  could  broach  the  subject 
Martin  plunged  into  the  one  with  which  he  was  full. 

"  Here,  let  me  read  you  this,"  he  cried,  separating  the 
carbon  copies  and  running  the  pages  of  manuscript  into 
shape.  "  It's  my  latest,  and  different  from  anything  I've 
done.  It  is  so  altogether  different  that  I  am  almost  afraid 
of  it,  and  yet  I've  a  sneaking  idea  it  is  good.  You  be 
judge.  It's  an  Hawaiian  story.  I've  called  it  'Wiki- 
Wiki.'" 

His  face  was  bright  with  the  creative  glow,  though  she 
shivered  in  the  cold  room  and  had  been  struck  by  the 
coldness  of  his  hands  at  greeting.  She  listened  closely 
while  he  read,  and  though  he  from  time  to  time  had  seen 
only  disapprobation  in  her  face,  at  the  close  he  asked :  — 

"  Frankly,  what  do  you  think  of  it?  " 

"I  —  I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  "  Will  it  —  do  you 
think  it  will  sell  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  not,"  was  the  confession.  "  It's  too  strong 
for  the  magazines.  But  it's  true,  on  my  word  it's  true." 

"  But  why  do  you  persist  in  writing  such  things  when 
you  know  they  won't  sell?"  she  went  on  inexorably. 
"  The  reason  for  your  writing  is  to  make  a  living,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that's  right ;  but  the  miserable  story  got  away 
with  me.  I  couldn't  help  writing  it.  It  demanded  to  be 
written." 

"  But  that  character,  that  Wiki-Wiki,  why  do  you  make 
him  talk  so  roughly  ?  Surely  it  will  offend  your  readers, 

297 


298  MARTIN  EDEN 

and  surely  that  is  why  the  editors  are  justified  in  refusing 
your  work." 

"  Because  the  real  Wiki-Wiki  would  have  talked  that 
way." 

"  But  it  is  not  good  taste." 

"  It  is  life,"  he  replied  bluntly.  "  It  is  real.  It  is  true. 
And  I  must  write  life  as  I  see  it." 

She  made  no  answer,  and  for  an  awkward  moment  they 
sat  silent.  It  was  because  he  loved  her  that  he  did  not 
quite  understand  her,  and  she  could  not  understand  him 
because  he  was  so  large  that  he  bulked  beyond  her  hori 
zon. 

"Well,  I've  collected  from  the  Transcontinental"  he 
said  in  an  effort  to  shift  the  conversation  to  a  more  com 
fortable  subject.  The  picture  of  the  bewhiskered  trio,  as 
he  had  last  seen  them,  mulcted  of  four  dollars  and  ninety 
cents  and  a  ferry  ticket,  made  him  chuckle. 

"  Then  you'll  come !  "  she  cried  joyously.  "  That  was 
what  I  came  to  find  out." 

"  Come  ?  "  he  muttered  absently.     "  Where  ?  " 

"  Why,  to  dinner  to-morrow.  You  know  you  said  you'd 
recover  your  suit  if  you  got  that  money." 

"  I  forgot  all  about  it,"  he  said  humbly.  "  You  see, 
this  morning  the  poundman  got  Maria's  two  cows  and  the 
baby  calf,  and  —  well,  it  happened  that  Maria  didn't 
have  any  money,  and  so  I  had  to  recover  her  cows  for  her. 
That's  where  the  Transcontinental  fiver  went  — 4  The 
Ring  of  Bells'  went  into  the  poundman's  pocket." 

"  Then  you  won't  come  ?  " 

He  looked  down  at  his  clothing. 

"I  can't." 

Tears  of  disappointment  and  reproach  glistened  in  her 
blue  eyes,  but  she  said  nothing. 

"Next  Thanksgiving  you'll  have  dinner  with  me  in 
Delmonico's,"  he  said  cheerily ;  "  or  in  London,  or  Paris, 
or  anywhere  you  wish.  I  know  it." 

"I  saw  in  the  paper  a  few  days  ago,"  she  announced 
abruptly,  "  that  there  had  been  several  local  appointments 
to  the  Railway  Mail.  You  passed  first,  didn't  you?  " 


MARTIN  EDEN  299 

He  was  compelled  to  admit  that  the  call  had  come  for 
him,  but  that  he  had  declined  it.  "  I  was  so  sure  —  I  am 
so  sure  —  of  myself,"  he  concluded.  "  A  year  from  now 
I'll  be  earning  more  than  a  dozen  men  in  the  Railway 
Mail.  You  wait  and  see." 

"  Oh,"  was  all  she  said,  when  he  finished.  She  stood 
up,  pulling  at  her  gloves.  "  I  must  go,  Martin.  Arthur 
is  waiting  for  me." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  but  she  proved 
a  passive  sweetheart.  There  was  no  tenseness  in  her  body, 
her  arms  did  not  go  around  him,  and  her  lips  met  his  with 
out  their  wonted  pressure. 

She  was  angry  with  him,  he  concluded,  as  he  returned 
from  the  gate.  But  why?  It  was  unfortunate  that  the 
poundman  had  gobbled  Maria's  cows.  But  it  was  only 
a  stroke  of  fate.  Nobody  could  be  blamed  for  it.  Nor 
did  it  enter  his  head  that  he  could  have  done  aught  other 
wise  than  what  he  had  done.  Well,  yes,  he  was  to  blame 
a  little,  was  his  next  thought,  for  having  refused  the  call  to 
the  Railway  Mail.  And  she  had  not  liked  "Wiki-Wiki." 

He  turned  at  the  head  of  the  steps  to  meet  the  letter- 
carrier  on  his  afternoon  round.  The  ever  recurrent  fever 
of  expectancy  assailed  Martin  as  he  took  the  bundle  of 
long  envelopes.  One  was  not  long.  It  was  short  and 
thin,  and  outside  was  printed  the  address  of  The  New 
York  Outview.  He  paused  in  the  act  of  tearing  the 
envelope  open.  It  could  not  be  an  acceptance.  He 
had  no  manuscripts  with  that  publication.  Perhaps  — 
his  heart  almost  stood  still  at  the  wild  thought  —  perhaps 
they  were  ordering  an  article  from  him ;  but  the  next  in 
stant  he  dismissed  the  surmise  as  hopelessly  impossible. 

It  was  a  short,  formal  letter,  signed  by  the  office  editor, 
merely  informing  him  that  an  anonymous  letter  which 
they  had  received  was  enclosed,  and  that  he  could  rest 
assured  the  Outview's  staff  never  under  any  circum 
stances  gave  consideration  to  anonymous  correspondence. 

The  enclosed  letter  Martin  found  to  be  crudely  printed 
by  hand.  It  was  a  hotchpotch  of  illiterate  abuse  of 
Martin,  and  of  assertion  that  the  "  so-called  Martin  Eden  " 


300  MARTIN  EDEtt 

who  was  selling  stories  to  magazines  was  no  writer  at  all% 
and  that  in  reality  he  was  stealing  stories  from  old  maga 
zines,  typing  them,  and  sending  them  out  as  his  own. 
The  envelope  was  postmarked  "  San  Leandro."  Martin 
did  not  require  a  second  thought  to  discover  the  author. 
Higginbotham's  grammar,  Higginbotham's  colloquialisms, 
Higginbotham's  mental  quirks  and  processes,  were  ap 
parent  throughout.  Martin  saw  in  every  line,  not  the 
fine  Italian  hand,  but  the  coarse  grocer's  fist,  of  his  brother- 
in-law. 

But  why?  he  vainly  questioned.  What  injury  had  he 
done  Bernard  Higginbotham  ?  The  thing  was  so  unreason 
able,  so  wanton.  There  was  no  explaining  it.  In  the 
course  of  the  week  a  dozen  similar  letters  were  forwarded 
to  Martin  by  the  editors  of  various  Eastern  magazines. 
The  editors  were  behaving  handsomely,  Martin  concluded. 
He  was  wholly  unknown  to  them,  yet  some  of  them  had 
even  been  sympathetic.  It  was  evident  that  they  detested 
anonymity.  He  saw  that  the  malicious  attempt  to  hurt 
him  had  failed.  In  fact,  if  anything  came  of  it,  it  was 
bound  to  be  good,  for  at  least  his  name  had  been  called  to 
the  attention  of  a  number  of  editors.  Sometime,  perhaps, 
reading  a  submitted  manuscript  of  his,  they  might  re 
member  him  as  the  fellow  about  whom  they  had  received 
an  anonymous  letter.  And  who  was  to  say  that  such 
a  remembrance  might  not  sway  the  balance  of  their  judg 
ment  just  a  trifle  in  his  favor  ? 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Martin  took  a  great  slump 
in  Maria's  estimation.  He  found  her  in  the  kitchen  one 
morning,  groaning  with  pain,  tears  of  weakness  running 
down  her  cheeks,  vainly  endeavoring  to  put  through  a 
large  ironing.  He  promptly  diagnosed  her  affliction  as  La 
Grippe,  dosed  her  with  hot  whiskey  (the  remnants  in  the 
bottles  for  which  Brissenden  was  responsible),  and  ordered 
her  to  bed.  But  Maria  was  refractory.  The  ironing  had 
to  be  done,  she  protested,  and  delivered  that  night,  or  else 
there  would  be  no  food  on  the  morrow  for  the  seven  small 
and  hungry  Silvas. 

To  her  astonishment  (and  it  was  something  that  she 


MARTIN  EDEN  301 

never  ceased  from  relating  to  her  dying  day),  she  saw 
Martin  Eden  seize  an  iron  from  the  stove  and  throw  a 
fancy  shirt-waist  on  the  ironing-board.  It  was  Kate  Flan 
agan's  best  Sunday  waist,  than  whom  there  was  no  more 
exacting  and  fastidiously  dressed  woman  in  Maria's  world. 
Also,  Miss  Flanagan  had  sent  special  instruction  that  said 
waist  must  be  delivered  by  that  night.  As  every  one 
knew,  she  was  keeping  company  with  John  Collins,  the 
blacksmith,  and,  as  Maria  knew  privily,  Miss  Flanagan 
and  Mr.  Collins  were  going  next  day  to  Golden  Gate 
Park.  Vain  was  Maria's  attempt  to  rescue  the  garment. 
Martin  guided  her  tottering  footsteps  to  a  chair,  from 
where  she  watched  him  with  bulging  eyes.  In  a  quarter 
of  the  time  it  would  have  taken  her  she  saw  the  shirt 
waist  safely  ironed,  and  ironed  as  well  as  she  could  have 
done  it,  as  Martin  made  her  grant. 

"  I  could  work  faster,*'  he  explained,  "  if  your  irons  were 
only  hotter." 

To  her,  the  irons  he  swung  were  much  hotter  than  she 
ever  dared  to  use. 

"Your  sprinkling  is  all  wrong,"  he  complained  next. 
"  Here,  let  me  teach  you  how  to  sprinkle.  Pressure  is 
what's  wanted.  Sprinkle  under  pressure  if  you  want  to 
iron  fast." 

He  procured  a  packing-case  from  the  woodpile  in  the 
cellar,  fitted  a  cover  to  it,  and  raided  the  scrap-iron  the 
Silva  tribe  was  collecting  for  the  junkman.  With  fresh- 
sprinkled  garments  in  the  box,  covered  with  the  board  and 
pressed  by  the  iron,  the  device  was  complete  and  in  oper 
ation. 

"  Now  you  watch  me,  Maria,"  he  said,  stripping  off  to 
his  undershirt  and  gripping  an  iron  that  was  what  he 
called  "really  hot." 

"  An'  when  he  feenish  da  iron'  he  washa  da  wools,''  as 
she  described  it  afterward.  "  He  "say,  '  Maria,  you  are  da 
greata  fool.  I  showa  you  how  to  washa  da  wools,'  an'  he 
showa  me,  too.  Ten  minutes  he  maka  da  machine  —  one 
barrel,  one  wheel-hub,  two  poles,  justa  like  dat." 

Martin  had  learned  the  contrivance  from  Joe  at  the 


302  MARTIN  EDEN 

Shelly  Hot  Springs.  The  old  wheel-hub,  fixed  on  the 
end  of  the  upright  pole,  constituted  the  plunger.  Making 
this,  in  turn,  fast  to  the  spring-pole  attached  to  the  kitchen 
rafters,  so  that  the  hub  played  upon  the  woollens  in  the 
barrel,  he  was  able,  with  one  hand,  thoroughly  to  pound 
them. 

"  No  more  Maria  washa  da  wools,"  her  story  always 
ended.  "  I  maka  da  kids  worka  da  pole  an'  da  hub  an'  da 
barrel.  Him  da  smarta  man,  Mister  Eden." 

Nevertheless,  by  his  masterly  operation  and  improve 
ment  of  her  kitchen-laundry,  he  fell  an  immense  distance 
in  her  regard.  The  glamour  of  romance  with  which  her 
imagination  had  invested  him  faded  away  in  the  cold  light 
of  fact  that  he  was  an  ex-laundryman.  All  his  books,  and 
his  grand  friends  who  visited  him  in  carriages  or  with 
countless  bottles  of  whiskey,  went  for  naught.  He  was,, 
after  all,  a  mere  workingman,  a  member  of  her  own  class 
and  caste.  He  was  more  human  and  approachable,  but 
he  was  no  longer  mystery. 

Martin's  alienation  from  his  family  continued.  Follow 
ing  upon  Mr.  Higginbotham's  unprovoked  attack,  Mr. 
Hermann  von  Schmidt  showed  his  hand.  The  fortunate 
sale  of  several  storiettes,  some  humorous  verse,  and  a  few 
jokes  gave  Martin  a  temporary  splurge  of  prosperity.  Not 
only  did  he  partially  pay  up  his  bills,  but  he  had  sufficient 
balance  left  to  redeem  his  black  suit  and  wheel.  The  lat 
ter,  by  virtue  of  a  twisted  crank-hanger,  required  repair 
ing,  and,  as  a  matter  of  friendliness  with  his  future 
brother-in-law,  he  sent  it  to  Von  Schmidt's  shop. 

The  afternoon  of  the  same  day  Martin  was  pleased  by 
the  wheel  being  delivered  by  a  small  boy.  Von  Schmidt 
was  also  inclined  to  be  friendly,  was  Martin's  conclusion 
from  this  unusual  favor.  Repaired  wheels  usually  had  to- 
be  called  for.  But  when  he  examined  the  wheel,  he  discov 
ered  no  repairs  had  been  made.  A  little  later  in  the  day 
he  telephoned  his  sister's  betrothed,  and  learned  that  that 
person  didn't  want  anything  to  do  with  him  in  "  any 
shape,  manner,  or  form." 

"  Hermann  von  Schmidt,"  Martin  answered  cheerfully,, 


MARTIN  EDEN  303 

"  I've  a  good  mind  to  come  over  and  punch  that  Dutch 
nose  of  yours. 

"  You  come  to  my  shop,"  came  the  reply,  "  an*  I'll  send 
for  the  police.  An'  I'll  put  you  through,  too.  Oh,  I 
know  you,  but  you  can't  make  no  rough-house  with  me. 
I  don't  want  nothin'  to  do  with  the  likes  of  you.  You're 
a  loafer,  that's  what,  an'  I  ain't  asleep.  You  ain't  goin'  to 
do  no  spongin'  off  me  just  because  I'm  marryin'  your  sis 
ter.  Why  don't  you  go  to  work  an'  earn  an  honest  livin', 
eh  ?  Answer  me  that." 

Martin's  philosophy  asserted  itself,  dissipating  his  anger, 
and  he  hung  up  the  receiver  with  a  long  whistle  of  incred 
ulous  amusement.  But  after  the  amusement  came  the  re 
action,  and  he  was  oppressed  by  his  loneliness.  Nobody 
understood  him,  nobody  seemed  to  have  any  use  for  him, 
except  Brissenden,  and  Brissenden  had  disappeared,  God 
alone  knew  where. 

Twilight  was  falling  as  Martin  left  the  fruit  store  and 
turned  homeward,  his  marketing  on  his  arm.  At  the  corner 
an  electric  car  had  stopped,  and  at  sight  of  a  lean,  familiar 
figure  alighting,  his  heart  leapt  with  joy.  It  was  Brissen 
den,  and  in  the  fleeting  glimpse,  ere  the  car  started  up, 
Martin  noted  the  overcoat  pockets,  one  bulging  with  books, 
the  other  bulging  with  a  quart  bottle  of  whiskey. 


CHAPTER    XXXV 

BRISSENDEN  gave  no  explanation  of  his  long  absence, 
nor  did  Martin  pry  into  it.  He  was  content  to  see  his 
friend's  cadaverous  face  opposite  him  through  the  steam 
rising  from  a  tumbler  of  toddy. 

"I,  too,  have  not  been  idle,"  Brissenden  proclaimed, 
after  hearing  Martin's  account  of  the  work  he  had  ac 
complished. 

He  pulled  a  manuscript  from  his  inside  coat  pocket  and 
passed  it  to  Martin,  who  looked  at  the  title  and  glanced 
up  curiously. 

"  Yes,  that's  it,"  Brissenden  laughed.  "  Pretty  good 
title,  eh?  'Ephemera'  —  it  is  the  one  word.  And  you're 
responsible  for  it,  what  of  your  man,  who  is  always  the 
erected,  the  vitalized  inorganic,  the  latest  of  the  ephemera, 
the  creature  of  temperature  strutting  his  little  space  on 
the  thermometer.  It  got  into  my  head  and  I  had  to 
write  it  to  get  lid  of  it.  Tell  me  what  you  think  of  it." 

Martin's  face,  flushed  at  first,  paled  as  he  read  on.  It 
was  perfect  art.  Form  triumphed  over  substance,  if 
triumph  it  could  be  called  where  the  last  conceivable 
atom  of  substance  had  found  expression  in  so  perfect 
construction  as  to  make  Martin's  head  swim  with  delight, 
to  put  passionate  tears  into  his  eyes,  and  to  send  chills 
creeping  up  and  down  his  back.  It  was  a  long  poem  of 
six  or  seven  hundred  lines,  and  it  was  a  fantastic,  amazing, 
unearthly  thing.  It  was  terrific,  impossible ;  and  yet  there 
it  was,  scrawled  in  black  ink  across  the  sheets  of  paper. 
It  dealt  with  man  and  his  soul-gropings  in  their  ultimate 
terms,  plumbing  the  abysses  of  space  for  the  testimony 
of  remotest  suns  and  rainbow  spectrums.  It  was  a  mad 
orgy  of  imagination,  wassailing  in  the  skull  of  a  dying 
man  who  half  sobbed  under  his  breath  and  was  quick 
with  the  wild  flutter  of  fading  heart-beats.  The  poem 

304 


MARTIN  EDEN  305 

swung  in  majestic  rhythm  to  the  cool  tumult  of  interstel 
lar  conflict,  to  the  onset  of  starry  hosts,  to  the  impact 
of  cold  suns  and  the  flaming  up  of  nebulae  in  the  dark 
ened  void ;  and  through  it  all,  unceasing  and  faint, 
like  a  silver  shuttle,  ran  the  frail,  piping  voice  of  man, 
a  querulous  chirp  amid  the  screaming  of  planets  and  the 
crash  of  systems. 

"  There  is  nothing  like  it  in  literature,"  Martin  said, 
when  at  last  he  was  able  to  speak.  "  It's  wonderful !  — 
wonderful!  It  has  gone  to  my  head.  I  am  drunken 
with  it.  That  great,  infinitesimal  question  —  I  can't 
shake  it  out  of  my  thoughts.  That  questing,  eternal, 
ever  recurring,  thin  little  wailing  voice  of  man  is  still 
ringing  in  my  ears.  It  is  like  the  dead-march  of  a  gnat 
amid  the  trumpeting  of  elephants  and  the  roaring  of 
lions.  It  is  insatiable  with  microscopic  desire.  I  know 
I'm  making  a  fool  of  myself,  but  the  thing  has  obsessed 
me.  You  are  —  I  don't  know  what  you  are  —  you  are 
wonderful,  that's  all.  But  how  do  you  do  it?  How  de 
you  do  it?" 

Martin  paused  from  his  rhapsody,  only  to  break  out 
afresh. 

"I  shall  never  write  again.  I  am  a  dauber  in  clay. 
You  have  shown  me  the  work  of  the  real  artificer-artisan. 
Genius!  This  is  something  more  than  genius.  It  tran 
scends  genius.  It  is  truth  gone  mad.  It  is  true,  man, 
every  line  of  it.  I  wonder  if  you  realize  that,  you  dog 
matist.  Science  cannot  give  you  the  lie.  It  is  the  truth 
of  the  sneer,  stamped  out  from  the  black  iron  of  the 
Cosmos  and  interwoven  with  mighty  rhythms  of  sound 
into  a  fabric  of  splendor  and  beauty.  And  now  I  won't 
say  another  word.  I  am  overwhelmed,  crushed.  Yes,  I 
will,  too.  Let  me  market  it  for  you." 

Brissenden  grinned.  "  There's  not  a  magazine  in  Chris 
tendom  that  would  dare  to  publish  it  —  you  know  that." 

"  I  know  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  know  there's  not  a 
magazine  in  Christendom  that  wouldn't  jump  at  it.  They 
don't  get  things  like  that  every  day.  That's  no  mere 
poem  of  the  year.  It's  the  poem  of  the  century." 


306  MARTIN  EDEN 

"I'd  like  to  take  you  up  on  the  proposition." 

"  Now  don't  get  cynical,"  Martin  exhorted.  "  The 
magazine  editors  are  not  wholly  fatuous.  I  know  that. 
And  I'll  close  with  you  on  the  bet.  I'll  wager  anything 
you  want  that  '  Ephemera '  is  accepted  either  on  the  first 
or  second  offering." 

"  There's  just  one  thing  that  prevents  me  from  taking 
you."  Brissenden  waited  a  moment.  "The  thing  is 
big  —  the  biggest  I've  ever  done.  I  know  that.  It's  my 
swan  song.  I  am  almighty  proud  of  it.  I  worship  it. 
It's  better  than  whiskey.  It  is  what  I  dreamed  of  —  the 
great  and  perfect  thing  —  when  I  was  a  simple  young 
man,  with  sweet  illusions  and  clean  ideals.  And  I've 
got  it,  now,  in  my  last  grasp,  and  I'll  not  have  it  pawed 
over  and  soiled  by  a  lot  of  swine.  No,  I  won't  take  the 
bet.  It's  mine.  I  made  it,  and  I've  shared  it  with  you." 

"But  think  of  the  rest  of  the  world,"  Martin  pro 
tested.  "  The  function  of  beauty  is  joy-making." 

"It's  my  beauty." 

"Don't  be  selfish." 

"I'm  not  selfish."  Brissenden  grinned  soberly  in  the 
way  he  had  when  pleased  by  the  thing  his  thin  lips  were 
about  to  shape.  "  I'm  as  unselfish  as  a  famished  hog." 

In  vain  Martin  strove  to  shake  him  from  his  decision. 
Martin  told  him  that  his  hatred  of  the  magazines  was 
rabid,  fanatical,  and  that  his  conduct  was  a  thousand  times 
more  despicable  than  that  of  the  youth  who  burned  the 
temple  of  Diana  at  Ephesus.  Under  the  storm  of  denuncia 
tion  Brissenden  complacently  sipped  his  toddy  and  affirmed 
that  everything  the  other  said  was  quite  true,  with  the 
exception  of  the  magazine  editors.  His  hatred  of  them 
knew  no  bounds,  and  he  excelled  Martin  in  denunciation 
when  he  turned  upon  them. 

"I  wish  you'd  type  it  for  me,"  he  said.  "You  know 
how  a  thousand  times  better  than  any  stenographer.  And 
now  I  want  to  give  you  some  advice."  He  drew  a  bulky 
manuscript  from  his  outside  coat  pocket.  "  Here's  your 
*  Shame  of  the  Sun.'  I've  read  it  not  once,  but  twice  and 
three  times  —  the  highest  compliment  I  can  pay  you. 


MARTIN  EDEN  307 

After  what  you've  said  about '  Ephemera '  I  must  be  silent. 
But  this  I  will  say  :  when  '  The  Shame  of  the  Sun '  is  pub 
lished,  it  will  make  a  hit.  It  will  start  a  controversy  that 
will  be  worth  thousands  to  you  just  in  advertising." 

Martin  laughed.  "  I  suppose  your  next  advice  will  be 
to  submit  it  to  the  magazines." 

"By  all  means  no  —  that  is,  if  you  want  to  see  it  in 
print.  Offer  it  to  the  first-class  houses.  Some  publisher's 
reader  may  be  mad  enough  or  drunk  enough  to  report 
favorably  on  it.  You've  read  the  books.  The  meat  of 
them  has  been  transmuted  in  the  alembic  of  Martin  Eden's 
mind  and  poured  into  '  The  Shame  of  the  Sun,'  and  one 
day  Martin  Eden  will  be  famous,  and  not  the  least  of  his 
fame  will  rest  upon  that  work.  So  you  must  get  a  pub 
lisher  for  it  —  the  sooner  the  better." 

Brissenden  went  home  late  that  night;  and  just  as  he 
mounted  the  first  step  of  the  car,  he  swung  suddenly  back 
on  Martin  and  thrust  into  his  hand  a  small,  tightly 
-crumpled  wad  of  paper. 

"  Here,  take  this,"  he  said.  "  I  was  out  to  the  races 
to-day,  and  I  had  the  right  dope." 

The  bell  clanged  and  the  car  pulled  out,  leaving  Martin 
wondering  as  to  the  nature  of  the  crinkly,  greasy  wad  he 
clutched  in  his  hand.  Back  in  his  room  he  unrolled  it 
and  found  a  hundred-dollar  bill. 

He  did  not  scruple  to  use  it.  He  knew  his  friend  had 
always  plenty  of  money,  and  he  knew  also,  with  profound 
certitude,  that  his  success  would  enable  him  to  repay  it. 
In  the  morning  he  paid  every  bill,  gave  Maria  three 
months'  advance  on  the  room,  and  redeemed  every  pledge 
at  the  pawnshop.  Next  he  bought  Marian's  wedding  pres 
ent,  and  simpler  presents,  suitable  to  Christmas,  for  Ruth 
and  Gertrude.  And  finally,  on  the  balance  remaining  to  him, 
he  herded  the  whole  Silva  tribe  down  into  Oakland.  He 
was  a  winter  late  in  redeeming  his  promise,  but  redeemed 
it  was,  for  the  last,  least  Silva  got  a  pair  of  shoes,  as  well  as 
Maria  herself.  Also,  there  were  horns,  and  dolls,  and  toys 
of  various  sorts,  and  parcels  and  bundles  of  candies  and 
nuts  that  filled  the  arms  of  all  the  Silvas  to  overflowing. 


308  MARTIN  EDEN 

It  was  with  this  extraordinary  procession  trooping 
at  his  and  Maria's  heels  into  a  confectioner's  in  quest  of 
the  biggest  candy-cane  ever  made,  that  ho  encountered 
Ruth  and  her  mother.  Mrs.  Morse  was  shocked.  Even 
Ruth  was  hurt,  for  she  had  some  regard  for  appearances, 
and  her  lover,  cheek  by  jowl  with  Maria,  at  the  head  of 
that  army  of  Portuguese  ragamuffins,  was  not  a  pretty 
sight.  But  it  was  not  that  which  hurt  so  much  as  what 
she  took  to  be  his  lack  of  pride  and  self-respect.  Further, 
and  keenest  of  all,  she  read  into  the  incident  the  impossi 
bility  of  his  living  down  his  working-class  origin.  There 
was  stigma  enough  in  the  fact  of  it,  but  shamelessly  to 
flaunt  it  in  the  face  of  the  world  —  her  world  —  was  going 
too  far.  Though  her  engagement  to  Martin  had  been  kept 
secret,  their  long  intimacy  had  not  been  unproductive  of 
gossip ;  and  in  the  shop,  glancing  covertly  at  her  lover  and 
his  following,  had  been  several  of  her  acquaintances.  She 
lacked  the  easy  largeness  of  Martin  and  could  not  rise  supe 
rior  to  her  environment.  She  had  been  hurt  to  the  quick, 
and  her  sensitive  nature  was  quivering  with  the  shame 
of  it.  So  it  was,  when  Martin  arrived  later  in  the  day, 
that  he  kept  her  present  in  his  breast-pocket,  defer 
ring  the  giving  of  it  to  a  more  propitious  occasion.  Ruth 
in  tears  —  passionate,  angry  tears  —  was  a  revelation  to 
him.  The  spectacle  of  her  suffering  convinced  him  that 
he  had  been  a  brute,  yet  in  the  soul  of  him  he  could  not 
see  how  nor  why.  It  never  entered  his  head  to  be  ashamed 
of  those  he  knew,  and  to  take  the  Silvas  out  to  a  Christ 
mas  treat  could  in  no  way,  so  it  seemed  to  him,  show 
Jack  of  consideration  for  Ruth.  On  the  other  hand,  he 
did  see  Ruth's  point  of  view,  after  she  had  explained  it ; 
and  he  looked  upon  it  as  a  feminine  weakness,  such  as 
afflicted  all  women  and  the  best  of  women. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

"  COME  on,  —  I'll  show  you  the  real  dirt,"  Brissenden 
said  to  him,  one  evening  in  January. 

They  had  dined  together  in  San  Francisco,  and  were 
at  the  Ferry  Building,  returning  to  Oakland,  when  the 
whim  came  to  him  to  show  Martin  the  "real  dirt."  He 
turned  and  fled  across  the  water-front,  a  meagre  shadow 
in  a  flapping  overcoat,  with  Martin  straining  to  keep  up 
with  him.  At  a  wholesale  liquor  store  he  bought  two 
gallon-demijohns  of  old  port,  and  with  one  in  each  hand 
boarded  a  Mission  Street  car,  Martin  at  his  heels  burdened 
with  several  quart-bottles  of  whiskey. 

If  Ruth  could  see  me  now,  was  his  thought,  while  he 
wondered  as  to  what  constituted  the  real  dirt. 

"  Maybe  nobody  will  be  there,"  Brissenden  said,  when 
they  dismounted  and  plunged  off  to  the  right  into  the 
heart  of  the  working-class  ghetto,  south  of  Market  Street. 
"  In  which  case  you'll  miss  what  you've  been  looking  for 
so  long." 

"  And  what  the  deuce  is  that  ?  "  Martin  asked. 

"  Men,  intelligent  men,  and  not  the  gibbering  nonen 
tities  \  found  you  consorting  with  in  that  trader's  den. 
You  r  ^,d  the  books  and  you  found  yourself  all  alone. 
Well,  I'm  going  to  show  you  to-night  some  other  men 
who've  read  the  books,  so  that  you  won't  be  lonely  any 
more. 

"  Not  that  I  bother  my  head  about  their  everlasting  dis 
cussions,"  he  said  at  the  end  of  a  block.  "  I'm  not  inter 
ested  in  book  philosophy.  But  you'll  find  these  fellows 
intelligences  and  not  bourgeois  swine.  But  watch  out, 
they'll  talk  an  arm  off  of  you  on  any  subject  under  the  sun. 

"  Hope  Norton's  there,"  he  panted  a  little  later,  resist 
ing  Martin's  effort  to  relieve  him  of  the  two  demijohns. 

309 


310  MARTIN  EDEN 

\ 

**  Norton's  an  idealist  —  a  Harvard  man.  Prodigious 
memory.  Idealism  led  him  to  philosophic  anarchy,  and 
his  family  threw  him  off.  Father's  a  railroad  president 
and  many  times  millionnaire,  but  the  son's  starving  in 
'Frisco,  editing  an  anarchist  sheet  for  twenty-five  a 
month." 

Martin  was  little  acquainted  in  San  Francisco,  and  not 
at  all  south  of  Market;  so  he  had  no  idea  of  where  he 
was  being  led. 

"  Go  ahead,"  he  said;  "tell  me  about  them  beforehand. 
What  do  they  do  for  a  living  ?  How  do  they  happen  to 
be  here  ?  " 

"Hope  Hamilton's  there."  Brissenden  paused  and 
rested  his  hands.  "  Strawn-Hamilton's  his  name — hy 
phenated,  you  know  —  comes  of  old  Southern  stock.  He's 
a  tramp  —  laziest  man  I  ever  knew,  though  he's  clerking, 
or  trying  to,  in  a  socialist  cooperative  store  for  six  dol 
lars  a  week.  But  he's  a  confirmed  hobo.  Tramped  into 
town.  I've  seen  him  sit  all  day  on  a  bench  and  never  a 
bite  pass  his  lips,  and  in  the  evening,  when  I  invited 
him  to  dinner  —  restaurant  two  blocks  away  —  have  him 
say,  '  Too  much  trouble,  old  man.  Buy  me  a  package  of 
cigarettes  instead.'  He  was  a  Spencerian  like  you  till 
Kreis  turned  him  to  materialistic  monism.  I'll  start  him 
on  monism  if  I  can.  Norton's  another  monist  —  only  he 
affirms  naught  but  spirit.  He  can  give  Kreis  and  Hamil 
ton  all  they  want,  too." 

"  Who  is  Kreis  ?  "  Martin  asked. 

"His  rooms  we're  going  to.  One  time  professor  — 
fired  from  university  —  usual  story.  A  mind  like  a  steel 
trap.  Makes  his  living  any  old  way.  I  know  he's  been  a 
street  fakir  when  he  was  down.  Unscrupulous.  Rob  a 
corpse  of  a  shroud — anything.  Difference  between  him 
and  the  bourgeoisie  is  that  he  robs  without  illusion. 
He'll  talk  Nietzsche,  or  Schopenhauer,  or  Kant,  or  any 
thing,  but  the  only  thing  in  this  world,  not  excepting 
Mary,  that  he  really  cares  for,  is  his  monism.  Haeckel  is 
his  little  tin  god.  The  only  way  to  insult  him  is  to  take 
a  slap  at  Haeckel. 


MARTIN  EDEN  311 

"Here's  the  hang-out."  Brissenden  rested  his  demi 
john  at  the  upstairs  entrance,  preliminary  to  the  climb. 
It  was  the  usual  two-story  corner  building,  with  a  saloon 
and  grocery  underneath.  "The  gang  lives  here  —  got 
the  whole  upstairs  to  themselves.  But  Kreis  is  the  only 
one  who  has  two  rooms.  Come  on." 

No  lights  burned  in  the  upper  hall,  but  Brissenden 
threaded  the  utter  blackness  like  a  familiar  ghost.  He 
stopped  to  speak  to  Martin. 

"  There's  one  fellow  —  Stevens  —  a  theosophist.  Makes 
a  pretty  tangle  when  he  gets  going.  Just  now  he's  dish 
washer  in  a  restaurant.  Likes  a  good  cigar.  I've  seen  him 
eat  in  a  ten-cent  hash-house  and  pay  fifty  cents  for  the 
cigar  he  smoked  afterward.  I've  got  a  couple  in  my  pocket 
for  him,  if  he  shows  up. 

"  And  there's  another  fellow  —  Parry  —  an  Australian, 
a  statistician  and  a  sporting  encyclopaedia.  Ask  him  the 
grain  output  of  Paraguay  for  1903,  or  the  English  impor 
tation  of  sheetings  into  China  for  1890,  or  at  what  weight 
•Jimmy  Britt  fought  Battling  Nelson,  or  who  was  welter 
weight  champion  of  the  United  States  in  '68,  and  you'll 
get  the  correct  answer  with  the  automatic  celerity  of  a 
slot-machine.  And  there's  Andy,  a  stone-mason,  has  ideas 
on  everything,  a  good  chess-player ;  and  another  fellow, 
Harry,  a  baker,  red  hot  socialist  and  strong  union  man. 
By  the  way,  you  remember  the  Cooks'  and  Waiters'  strike 
—  Hamilton  was  the  chap  who  organized  that  union  and 
precipitated  the  strike  —  planned  it  all  out  in  advance, 
right  here  in  Kreis's  rooms.  Did  it  just  for  the  fun  of  it, 
but  was  too  lazy  to  stay  by  the  union.  Yet  he  could  have 
risen  high  if  he  wanted  to.  There's  no  end  to  the  possibil 
ities  in  that  man  —  if  he  weren't  so  insuperably  lazy." 

Brissenden  advanced  through  the  darkness  till  a  thread 
of  light  marked  the  threshold  of  a  door.  A  knock  and  an 
answer  opened  it,  and  Martin  found  himself  shaking  hands 
with  Kreis,  a  handsome  brunette  man,  with  dazzling  white 
teeth,  a  drooping  black  mustache,  and  large,  flashing  black 
eyes.  Mary,  a  matronly  young  blonde,  was  washing  dishes 
in  the  little  back  room  that  served  for  kitchen  and  dining 


312  MARTIN  EDEN 

room.  The  front  room  served  as  bedchamber  and  living 
room.  Overhead  was  the  week's  washing,  hanging  in  fes 
toons  so  low  that  Martin  did  not  see  at  first  the  two  men 
talking  in  a  corner.  They  hailed  Brissenden  and  his  demi 
johns  with  acclamation,  and,  on  being  introduced,  Martin 
learned  they  were  Andy  and  Parry.  He  joined  them  and 
listened  attentively  to  the  description  of  a  prize-fight  Parry 
had  seen  the  night  before  ;  while  Brissenden,  in  his  glory, 
plunged  into  the  manufacture  of  a  toddy  and  the  serving 
of  wine  and  whiskey-and-sodas.  At  his  command,  "  Bring 
in  the  clan,"  Andy  departed  to  go  the  round  of  the  rooms 
for  the  lodgers. 

"  We're  lucky  that  most  of  them  are  here,"  Brissenden 
whispered  to  Martin.  "  There's  Norton  and  Hamilton ; 
come  on  and  meet  them.  Stevens  isn't  around,  I  hear. 
I'm  going  to  get  them  started  on  monism  if  I  can.  Wait 
till  they  get  a  few  jolts  in  them  and  they'll  warm  up." 

At  first  the  conversation  was  desultory.  Nevertheless 
Martin  could  not  fail  to  appreciate  the  keen  play  of  their 
minds.  They  were  men  with  opinions,  though  the  opinions 
often  clashed,  and,  though  they  were  witty  and  clever,  they 
were  not  superficial.  He  swiftly  saw,  no  matter  upon 
what  they  talked,  that  each  man  applied  the  correlation  of 
knowledge  and  had  also  a  deep-seated  and  unified  concep 
tion  of  society  and  the  Cosmos.  Nobody  manufactured 
their  opinions  for  them;  they  were  all  rebels  of  one  variety 
or  another,  and  their  lips  were  strangers  to  platitudes. 
Never  had  Martin,  at  the  Morses',  heard  so  amazing  a  range 
of  topics  discussed.  There  seemed  no  limit  save  time  to 
the  things  they  were  alive  to.  The  talk  wandered  from 
Mrs.  Humphry  Ward's  new  book  to  Shaw's  latest  play, 
through  the  future  of  the  drama  to  reminiscences  of 
Mansfield.  They  appreciated  or  sneered  at  the  morning 
editorials,  jumped  from  labor  conditions  in  New  Zealand 
to  Henry  James  and  Brander  Matthews,  passed  on  to  the 
German  designs  in  the  Far  East  and  the  economic  aspect 
of  the  Yellow  Peril,  wrangled  over  the  German  elections 
and  Bebel's  last  speech,  and  settled  down  to  local  politics, 
the  latest  plans  and  scandals  in  the  union  labor  party  ad- 


MARTIN  EDEN  313 

ministration,  and  the  wires  that  were  pulled  to  bring  about 
the  Coast  Seamen's  strike.  Martin  was  struck  by  the  inside 
knowledge  they  possessed.  They  knew  what  was  never 
printed  in  the  newspapers  —  the  wires  and  strings  and  the 
hidden  hands  that  made  the  puppets  dance.  To  Martin's 
surprise,  the  girl,  Mary,  joined  in  the  conversation,  dis 
playing  an  intelligence  he  had  never  encountered  in  the 
few  women  he  had  met.  They  talked  together  on  Swin 
burne  and  Rossetti,  after  which  she  led  him  beyond  his 
depth  into  the  by-paths  of  French  literature.  His  revenge 
came  when  she  defended  Maeterlinck  and  he  brought  into 
action  the  carefully-thought-out  thesis  of  "  The  Shame  of 
the  Sun." 

Several  other  men  had  dropped  in,  and  the  air  was  thick 
with  tobacco   smoke,   when   Brissenden   waved    the   red 


"Here's  fresh  meat  for  your  axe,  Kreis,"  he  said;  "a 
rose-white  youth  with  the  ardor  of  a  lover  for  Herbert 
Spencer.  Make  a  Haeckelite  of  him  —  if  you  can." 

Kreis  seemed  to  wake  up  and  flash  like  some  metallic, 
magnetic  thing,  while  Norton  looked  at  Martin  sympatheti 
cally,  with  a  sweet,  girlish  smile,  as  much  as  to  say  that 
he  would  be  amply  protected. 

Kreis  began  directly  on  Martin,  but  step  by  step  Norton 
interfered,  until  he  and  Kreis  were  off  and  away  in  a  per 
sonal  battle.  Martin  listened  and  fain  would  have  rubbed 
his  eyes.  It  was  impossible  that  this  should  be,  much  less 
in  the  labor  ghetto  south  of  Market.  The  books  were  alive 
in  these  men.  They  talked  with  fire  and  enthusiasm,  the 
intellectual  stimulant  stirring  them  as  he  had  seen  drink 
and  anger  stir  other  men.  What  he  heard  was  no  longer 
the  philosophy  of  the  dry,  printed  word,  written  by  half- 
mythical  demigods  like  Kant  and  Spencer.  It  was  living 
philosophy,  with  warm,  red  blood,  incarnated  in  these  two 
men  till  its  very  features  worked  with  excitement.  Now 
and  again  other  men  joined  in,  and  all  followed  the  dis 
cussion  with  cigarettes  going  out  in  their  hands  and  with 
alert,  intent  faces. 

Idealism  had  never  attracted  Martin,  but  the  exposition 


314  MARTIN  EDEN 

it  now  received  at  the  hands  of  Norton  was  a  revelation. 
The  logical  plausibility  of  it,  that  made  an  appeal  to  his 
intellect,  seemed  missed  by  Kreis  and  Hamilton,  who 
sneered  at  Norton  as  a  metaphysician,  and  who,  in 
turn,  sneered  back  at  them  as  metaphysicians.  Phe 
nomenon  and  noumenon  were  bandied  back  and  forth. 
They  charged  him  with  attempting  to  explain  conscious 
ness  by  itself.  He  charged  them  with  word-jugglery, 
with  reasoning  from  words  to  theory  instead  of  from  facts 
to  theory.  At  this  they  were  aghast.  It  was  the  cardinal 
tenet  of  their  mode  of  reasoning  to  start  with  facts  and  to 
give  names  to  the  facts. 

When  Norton  wandered  into  the  intricacies  of  Kant, 
Kreis  reminded  him  that  all  good  little  German  philoso 
phies  when  they  died  went  to  Oxford.  A  little  later 
Norton  reminded  them  of  Hamilton's  Law  of  Parsimony, 
the  application  of  which  they  immediately  claimed  for 
every  reasoning  process  of  theirs.  And  Martin  hugged 
his  knees  and  exulted  in  it  all.  But  Norton  was  no  Spen- 
cerian,  and  he,  too,  strove  for  Martin's  philosophic  soul, 
talking  as  much  at  him  as  to  his  two  opponents. 

"  You  know  Berkeley  has  never  been  answered,"  he 
said,  looking  directly  at  Martin.  "  Herbert  Spencer  came 
the  nearest,  which  was  not  very  near.  Even  the  stanch- 
est  of  Spencer's  followers  will  not  go  farther.  I  was  read 
ing  an  essay  of  Saleeby's  the  other  day,  and  the  best 
Saleeby  could  say  was  that  Herbert  Spencer  nearly  suc 
ceeded  in  answering  Berkeley." 

"  You  know  what  Hume  said?  "  Hamilton  asked.  Nor 
ton  nodded,  but  Hamilton  gave  it  for  the  benefit  of  the 
rest.  "He  said  that  Berkeley's  arguments  admit  of  no 
answer  and  produce  no  conviction." 

"  In  his,  Hume's,  mind,"  was  the  reply.  "  And  Hume's 
mind  was  the  same  as  yours,  with  this  difference  :  he  was 
wise  enough  to  admit  there  was  no  answering  Berkeley." 

Norton  was  sensitive  and  excitable,  though  he  never 
lost  his  head,  while  Kreis  and  Hamilton  were  like  a  pair 
of  cold-blooded  savages,  seeking  out  tender  places  to  prod 
and  poke.  As  the  evening  grew  late,  Norton,  smarting 


MARTIN  EDEN  315 

under  the  repeated  charges  of  being  a  metaphysician* 
clutching  his  chair  to  keep  from  jumping  to  his  feet,  his- 
gray  eyes  snapping  and  his  girlish  face  grown  harsh  and 
sure,  made  a  grand  attack  upon  their  position. 

"  All  right,  you  Haeckelites,  I  may  reason  like  a  medi 
cine  man,  but,  pray,  how  do  you  reason  ?  You  have  noth 
ing  to  stand  on,  you  unscientific  dogmatists  with  your 
positive  science  which  you  are  always  lugging  about  into* 
places  it  has  no  right  to  be.  Long  before  the  school  of 
materialistic  monism  arose,  the  ground  was  removed  so 
that  there  could  be  no  foundation.  Locke  was  the  man, 
John  Locke.  Two  hundred  years  ago  —  more  than  that, 
even — in  his  'Essay  concerning  the  Human  Understand 
ing,'  he  proved  the  non-existence  of  innate  ideas.  The 
best  of  it  is  that  that  is  precisely  what  you  claim.  To 
night,  again  and  again,  you  have  asserted  the  non-existence 
of  innate  ideas. 

"  And  what  does  that  mean  ?  It  means  that  you  can 
never  know  ultimate  reality.  Your  brains  are  empty 
when  you  are  born.  Appearances,  or  phenomena,  are  all 
the  content  your  minds  can  receive  from  your  five  senses. 
Then  noumena,  which  are  not  in  your  minds  when  you  are 
born,  have  no  way  of  getting  in  —  " 

"  I  deny  —  "  Kreis  started  to  interrupt. 

"  You  wait  till  I'm  done,"  Norton  shouted.  "  You  can 
know  only  that  much  of  the  play  and  interplay  of  force 
and  matter  as  impinges  in  one  way  or  another  on  your 
senses.  You  see,  I  am  willing  to  admit,  for  the  sake  of 
the  argument,  that  matter  exists  ;  and  what  I  am  about 
to  do  is  to  efface  you  by  your  own  argument.  I  can't 
do  it  any  other  way,  for  you  are  both  congenitally  unable 
to  understand  a  philosophic  abstraction. 

"  And  now,  what  do  you  know  of  matter,  according  to 
your  own  positive  science?  You  know  it  only  by  its 
phenomena,  its  appearances.  You  are  aware  only  of  its 
changes,  or  of  such  changes  in  it  as  cause  changes  in 
your  consciousness.  Positive  science  deals  only  with  phe 
nomena,  yet  you  are  foolish  enough  to  strive  to  be  on- 
tologists  and  to  deal  with  noumena.  Yet,  by  the  very 


316  MARTIN  EDEN 

definition  of  positive  science,  science  is  concerned  only 
with  appearances.  As  somebody  has  said,  phenomenal 
knowledge  cannot  transcend  phenomena. 

"  You  cannot  answer  Berkeley,  even  if  you  have  anni 
hilated  Kant,  and  yet,  perforce,  you  assume  that  Berkeley 
is  wrong  when  you  affirm  that  science  proves  the  non- 
existence  of  God,  or,  as  much  to  the  point,  the  existence 
of  matter.  —  You  know  I  granted  the  reality  of  matter 
only  in  order  to  make  myself  intelligible  to  your  under 
standing.  Be  positive  scientists,  if  you  please;  but  on 
tology  has  no  place  in  positive  science,  so  leave  it  alone. 
Spencer  is  right  in  his  agnosticism,  but  if  Spencer  —  " 

But  it  was  time  to  catch  the  last  ferry-boat  for  Oak 
land,  and  Brissenden  and  Martin  slipped  out,  leaving 
Norton  still  talking  and  Kreis  and  Hamilton  waiting  to 
pounce  on  him  like  a  pair  of  hounds  as  soon  as  he  finished. 

"  You  have  given  me  a  glimpse  of  fairyland,"  Martin 
said  on  the  ferry-boat.  "It  makes  life  worth  while  to 
meet  people  like  that.  My  mind  is  all  worked  up.  I 
never  appreciated  idealism  before.  Yet  I  can't  accept  it. 
I  know  that  I  shall  always  be  a  realist.  I  am  so  made,  I 
guess.  But  I'd  like  to  have  made  a  reply  to  Kreis  and 
Hamilton,  and  I  think  I'd  have  had  a  word  or  two  for 
Norton.  I  didn't  see  that  Spencer  was  damaged  any.  I'm 
as  excited  as  a  child  on  its  first  visit  to  the  circus.  I  see 
I  must  read  up  some  more.  I'm  going  to  get  hold  of 
Saleeby.  I  still  think  Spencer  is  unassailable,  and  next 
time  I'm  going  to  take  a  hand  myself." 

But  Brissenden,  breathing  painfully,  had  dropped  off 
to  sleep,  his  chin  buried  in  a  scarf  and  resting  on  his 
sunken  chest,  his  body  wrapped  in  the  long  overcoat  and 
shaking  to  the  vibration  of  the  propellers. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THE  first  thing  Martin  did  next  morning  was  to  go 
counter  both  to  Brissenden's  advice  and  command.  "  The 
Shame  of  the  Sun  "  he  wrapped  and  mailed  to  The  Acrop 
olis.  He  believed  he  could  find  magazine  publication  for 
it,  and  he  felt  that  recognition  by  the  magazines  would 
commend  him  to  the  book-publishing  houses.  "  Ephem 
era"  he  likewise  wrapped  and  mailed  to  a  magazine. 
Despite  Brissenden's  prejudice  against  the  magazines, 
which  was  a  pronounced  mania  with  him,  Martin  decided 
that  the  great  poem  should  see  print.  He  did  not  intend, 
however,  to  publish  it  without  the  other's  permission. 
His  plan  was  to  get  it  accepted  by  one  of  the  high  maga 
zines,  and,  thus  armed,  again  to  wrestle  with  Brissenden 
for  consent. 

Martin  began,  that  morning,  a  story  which  he  had 
sketched  out  a  number  of  weeks  before  and  which  ever 
since  had  been  worrying  him  with  its  insistent  clamor  to 
be  created.  Apparently  it  was  to  be  a  rattling  sea  story, 
a  tale  of  twentieth-century  adventure  and  romance,  han 
dling  real  characters,  in  a  real  world,  under  real  conditions. 
But  beneath  the  swing  and  go  of  the  story  was  to  be  some 
thing  else  —  something  that  the  superficial  reader  would 
never  discern  and  which,  on  the  other  hand,  would  not 
diminish  in  any  way  the  interest  and  enjoyment  for  such 
a  reader.  It  was  this,  and  not  the  mere  story,  that  impelled 
Martin  to  write  it.  For  that  matter,  it  was  always  the 
great,  universal  motif  that  suggested  plots  to  him.  After 
having  found  such  a  motif,  he  cast  about  for  the  particular 
persons  and  particular  location  in  time  and  space  where 
with  and  wherein  to  utter  the  universal  thing.  "  Over 
due  "  was  the  title  he  had  decided  for  it,  and  its  length  he 
believed  would  not  be  more  than  sixty  thousand  words  •*- 

317 


318  MARTIN  EDEN 

a  bagatelle  for  him  with  his  splendid  vigor  of  production. 
On  this  first  day  he  took  hold  of  it  with  conscious  delight 
in  the  mastery  of  his  tools.  He  no  longer  worried  for  fear 
that  the  sharp,  cutting  edges  should  slip  and  mar  his. 
work.  The  long  months  of  intense  application  and  study 
had  brought  their  reward.  He  could  now  devote  himself 
with  sure  hand  to  the  larger  phases  of  the  thing  he 
shaped;  and  as  he  worked,  hour  after  hour,  he  felt,  as 
never  before,  the  sure  and  cosmic  grasp  with  which  he 
held  life  and  the  affairs  of  life.  "  Overdue  "  would  tell  a 
story  that  would  be  true  of  its  particular  characters  and 
its  particular  events ;  but  it  would  tell,  too,  he  was  con 
fident,  great  vital  things  that  would  be  true  of  all  time, 
and  all  sea,  and  all  life  —  thanks  to  Herbert  Spencer,  he 
thought,  leaning  back  for  a  moment  from  the  table.  Ay, 
thanks  to  Herbert  Spencer  and  to  the  master-key  of  life, 
evolution,  which  Spencer  had  placed  in  his  hands. 

He  was  conscious  that  it  was  great  stuff  he  was  writing. 
"  It  will  go  !  It  will  go  1  "  was  the  refrain  that  kept 
sounding  in  his  ears.  Of  course  it  would  go.  At  last 
he  was  turning  out  the  thing  at  which  the  magazines 
would  jump.  The  whole  story  worked  out  before  him  in 
lightning  flashes.  He  broke  off  from  it  long  enough  to 
write  a  paragraph  in  his  note-book.  This  would  be  the 
last  paragraph  in  "  Overdue  "  ;  but  so  thoroughly  was  the 
whole  book  already  composed  in  his  brain  that  he  could 
write,  weeks  before  he  had  arrived  at  the  end,  the  end 
itself.  He  compared  the  tale,  as  yet  unwritten,  with  the 
tales  of  the  sea- writers,  and  he  felt  it  to  be  immeasurably 
superior.  "There's  only  one  man  who  could  touch  it," 
he  murmured  aloud,  "and  that's  Conrad.  And  it  ought 
to  make  even  him  sit  up  and  shake  hands  with  me,  and 
say,  'Well  done,  Martin,  my  boy.'" 

He  toiled  on  all  day,  recollecting,  at  the  last  moment, 
that  he  was  to  have  dinner  at  the  Morses'.  Thanks  to- 
Brissenden,  his  black  suit  was  out  of  pawn  and  he  was 
again  eligible  for  dinner  parties.  Down  town  he  stopped 
off  long  enough  to  run  into  the  library  and  search  for 
Saleeby's  books.  He  drew  out  "  The  Cycle  of  Life,"  and 


MARTIN  EDEN  319 

on  the  car  turned  to  the  essay  Norton  had  mentioned  on 
Spencer.  As  Martin  read,  he  grew  angry.  His  face 
flushed,  his  jaw  set,  and  unconsciously  his  hand  clenched, 
unclenched,  and  clenched  again  as  if  he  were  taking  fresh 
grips  upon  some  hateful  thing  out  of  which  he  was  squeezing 
the  life.  When  he  left  the  car,  he  strode  along  the  sidewalk 
as  a  wrathful  man  will  stride,  and  he  rang  the  Morse  bell 
with  such  vicic  asness  that  it  roused  him  to  consciousness 
of  his  condition,  so  that  he  entered  in  good  nature,  smil 
ing  with  amusement  at  himself.  No  sooner,  however,  was 
he  inside  than  a  great  depression  descended  upon  him. 
He  fell  from  the  height  where  he  had  been  up- borne  all 
day  on  the  wings  of  inspiration.  "  Bourgeois,"  "  trader's 
den"  —  Brissenden's  epithets  repeated  themselves  in  his 
mind.  But  what  of  that  ?  he  demanded  angrily.  He  was 
marrying  Ruth,  not  her  family. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  never  seen  Ruth  more 
beautiful,  more  spiritual  and  ethereal  and  at  the  same 
time  more  healthy.  There  was  color  in  her  cheeks,  and 
her  eyes  drew  him  again  and  again  —  the  eyes  in  which 
he  had  first  read  immortality.  He  had  forgotten  im 
mortality  of  late,  and  the  trend  of  his  scientific  reading 
had  been  away  from  it ;  but  here,  in  Ruth's  eyes,  he  read 
an  argument  without  words  that  transcended  all  worded 
arguments.  He  saw  that  in  her  eyes  before  which  all 
discussion  fled  away,  for  he  saw  love  there.  And  in  his 
own  eyes  was  love ;  and  love  was  unanswerable.  Such 
was  his  passionate  doctrine. 

The  half  hour  he  had  with  her,  before  they  went  in  to 
dinner,  left  him  supremely  happy  and  supremely  satisfied 
with  life.  Nevertheless,  at  table,  the  inevitable  reaction 
and  exhaustion  consequent  upon  the  hard  day  seized  hold 
of  him.  He  was  aware  that  his  eyes  were  tired  and  that 
he  was  irritable.  He  remembered  it  was  at  this  table,  at 
which  he  now  sneered  and  was  so  often  bored,  that  he  had 
first  eaten  with  civilized  beings  in  what  he  had  imagined 
was  an  atmosphere  of  high  culture  and  refinement.  He 
caught  a  glimpse  of  that  pathetic  figure  of  him,  so  long 
ago,  a  self-conscious  savage,  sprouting  sweat  at  every 


320  MARTIN  EDEN 

pore  in  an  agony  of  apprehension,  puzzled  by  the  be 
wildering  minutiae  of  eating-implements,  tortured  by  the 
ogre  of  a  servant,  striving  at  a  leap  to  live  at  such  dizzy  so 
cial  altitude,  and  deciding  in  the  end  to  be  frankly  himself, 
pretending  no  knowledge  and  no  polish  he  did  not  possess. 

He  glanced  at  Ruth  for  reassurance,  much  in  the  same 
manner  that  a  passenger,  with  sudden  panic  thought  of 
possible  shipwreck,  will  strive  to  locate  the  life  -preservers. 
Well,  that  much  had  come  out  of  it  —  love  and  Ruth. 
All  the  rest  had  failed  to  stand  the  test  of  the  books. 
But  Ruth  and  love  had  stood  the  test ;  for  them  he  found 
a  biological  sanction.  Love  was  the  most  exalted  ex 
pression  of  life.  Nature  had  been  busy  designing  him, 
as  she  had  been  busy  with  all  normal  men,  for  the  purpose 
of  loving.  She  had  spent  ten  thousand  centuries  —  ay,  a 
hundred  thousand  and  a  million  centuries  —  upon  the 
task,  and  he  was  the  best  she  could  do.  She  had  made 
love  the  strongest  thing  in  him,  increased  its  power  a 
myriad  per  cent  with  her  gift  of  imagination,  and  sent 
him  forth  into  the  ephemera  to  thrill  and  melt  and  mate. 
His  hand  sought  Ruth's  hand  beside  him  hidden  by  the 
table,  and  a  warm  pressure  was  given  and  received.  She 
looked  at  him  a  swift  instant,  and  her  eyes  were  radiant 
and  melting.  So  were  his  in  the  thrill  that  pervaded 
him  ;  nor  did  he  realize  how  much  that  was  radiant  and 
melting  in  her  eyes  had  been  aroused  by  what  she  had 
seen  in  his. 

Across  the  table  from  him,  eater-cornered,  at  Mr.  Morse's 
right,  sat  Judge  Blount,  a  local  superior  court  judge. 
Martin  had  met  him  a  number  of  times  and  had  failed  to 
like  him.  He  and  Ruth's  father  were  discussing  labor 
union  politics,  the  local  situation,  and  socialism,  and  Mr. 
Morse  was  endeavoring  to  twit  Martin  on  the  latter  topic. 
At  last  Judge  Blount  looked  across  the  table  with  benignant 
and  fatherly  pity.  Martin  smiled  to  himself. 

"  You'll  grow  out  of  it,  young  man,"  he  said  soothingly. 
"Time  is  the  best  cure  for  such  youthful  distempers."  He 
turned  to  Mr.  Morse.  "I  do  not  believe  discussion  is 
good  in  such  cases.  It  makes  the  patient  obstinate." 


MARTIN  EDEN  321 

"That  is  true,"  the  other  assented  gravely.  "But 
it  is  well  to  warn  the  patient  occasionally  of  his  condi 
tion." 

Martin  laughed  merrily,  but  it  was  with  an  effort.  The 
day  had  been  too  long,  the  day's  effort  too  intense,  and  he 
was  deep  in  the  throes  of  the  reaction. 

"  Undoubtedly  you  are  both  excellent  doctors,"  he  said ; 
"  but  if  you  care  a  whit  for  the  opinion  of  the  patient,  let 
him  tell  you  that  you  are  poor  diagnosticians.  In  fact, 
you  are  both  suffering  from  the  disease  you  think  you  find 
in  me.  As  for  me,  I  am  immune.  The  socialist  philosophy 
that  riots  half-baked  in  your  veins  has  passed  me  by." 

"  Clever,  clever,"  murmured  the  judge.  "  An  excellent 
ruse  in  controversy,  to  reverse  positions." 

"Out  of  your  mouth."  Martin's  eyes  were  sparkling, 
but  he  kept  control  of  himself.  "  You  see,  Judge,  I've 
heard  your  campaign  speeches.  By  some  henidical  process 
—  henidical,  by  the  way,  is  a  favorite  word  of  mine  which 
nobody  understands  —  by  some  henidical  process  you  per 
suade  yourself  that  you  believe  in  the  competitive  system 
and  the  survival  of  the  strong,  and  at  the  same  time  you 
indorse  with  might  and  main  all  sorts  of  measures  to  shear 
the  strength  from  the  strong." 

"  My  young  man  —  " 

"Remember,  I've  heard  your  campaign  speeches," 
Martin  warned.  "  It's  on  record,  your  position  on  inter 
state  commerce  regulation,  on  regulation  of  the  railway 
trust  and  Standard  Oil,  on  the  conservation  of  the  forests, 
on  a  thousand  and  one  restrictive  measures  that  are  noth 
ing  else  than  socialistic." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  do  not  believe  in  reg 
ulating  these  various  outrageous  exercises  of  power  ?  " 

"  That's  not  the  point.  I  mean  to  tell  you  that  you  are 
a  poor  diagnostician.  I  mean  to  tell  you  that  I  am  not 
suffering  from  the  microbe  of  socialism.  I  mean  to  tell 
you  that  it  is  you  who  are  suffering  from  the  emasculating 
ravages  of  that  same  microbe.  As  for  me,  I  am  an  in 
veterate  opponent  of  socialism  just  as  I  am  an  inveterate 
opponent  of  your  own  mongrel  democracy  that  is  nothing 


322  MARTIN  EDEN 

else  than  pseudo-socialism  masquerading  under  a  garb  of 
words  that  will  not  stand  the  test  of  the  dictionary. 

"  I  am  a  reactionary  —  so  complete  a  reactionary  that 
my  position  is  incomprehensible  to  you  who  live  in  a  veiled 
lie  of  social  organization  and  whose  sight  is  not  keen  enough 
to  pierce  the  veil.  You  make  believe  that  you  believe 
in  the  survival  of  the  strong  and  the  rule  of  the  strong. 
I  believe.  That  is  the  difference.  When  I  was  a  trifle 
younger,  —  a  few  months  younger,  —  I  believed  the  same 
thing.  You  see,  the  ideas  of  you  and  yours  had  impressed 
me.  But  merchants  and  traders  are  cowardly  rulers  at 
best ;  they  grunt  and  grub  all  their  days  in  the  trough  of 
money-getting,  and  I  have  swung  back  to  aristocracy,  if 
you  please.  I  am  the  only  individualist  in  this  room.  I 
look  to  the  state  for  nothing.  I  look  only  to  the  strong 
man,  the  man  on  horseback,  to  save  the  state  from  its  own 
rotten  futility. 

"Nietzsche  was  right.  I  won't  take  the  time  to  tell 
you  who  Nietzsche  was,  but  he  was  right.  The  world 
belongs  to  the  strong — to  the  strong  who  are  noble  as 
well  and  who  do  not  wallow  in  the  swine-trough  of  trade 
and  exchange.  The  world  belongs  to  the  true  noblemen, 
to  the  great  blond  beasts,  to  the  noncompromisers,  to  the 
*  yes-sayers. '  And  they  will  eat  you  up,  you  socialists 
who  are  afraid  of  socialism  and  who  think  yourselves  in 
dividualists.  Your  slave-morality  of  the  meek  and  lowly 
will  never  save  you.  — Oh,  it's  all  Greek,  I  know,  and  I 
won't  bother  you  any  more  with  it.  But  remember  one 
thing.  There  aren't  half  a  dozen  individualists  in  Oak 
land,  but  Martin  Eden  is  one  of  them." 

He  signified  that  he  was  done  with  the  discussion,  and 
turned  to  Ruth. 

"I'm  wrought  up  to-day,"  he  said  in  an  undertone. 
*'  All  I  want  to  do  is  to  love,  not  talk. " 

He  ignored  Mr.  Morse,  who  said :  — 

"  I  am  unconvinced.  All  socialists  are  Jesuits.  That 
is  the  way  to  tell  them." 

"  We'll  make  a  good  Republican  out  of  you  yet,"  said 
Judge  Blount. 


MARTIN  EDEN  323 

"  The  man  on  horseback  will  arrive  before  that  time," 
Martin  retorted  with  good  humor,  and  returned  to  Ruth. 

But  Mr.  Morse  was  not  content.  He  did  not  like  the 
laziness  and  the  disinclination  for  sober,  legitimate  work 
of  this  prospective  son-in-law  of  his,  for  whose  ideas  he  had 
no  respect  and  of  whose  nature  he  had  no  understanding. 
So  he  turned  the  conversation  to  Herbert  Spencer.  Judge 
Blount  ably  seconded  him,  and  Martin,  whose  ears  had 
pricked  at  the  first  mention  of  the  philosopher's  name, 
listened  to  the  judge  enunciate  a  grave  and  complacent 
diatribe  against  Spencer.  From  time  to  time  Mr.  Morse 
glanced  at  Martin,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  There,  my  boy, 
you  see." 

"  Chattering  daws,"  Martin  muttered  under  his  breath 
and  went  on  talking  with  Ruth  and  Arthur. 

But  the  long  day  and  the  "  real  dirt  "  of  the  night  before 
were  telling  upon  him  ;  and,  besides,  still  burning  in  his 
mind  was  what  had  made  him  angry  when  he  read  it  on 
the  car. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  Ruth  asked  suddenly,  alarmed 
by  the  effort  he  was  making  to  contain  himself. 

"  There  is  no  god  but  the  Unknowable,  and  Herbert 
Spencer  is  its  prophet,"  Judge  Blount  was  saying  at  that 
moment. 

Martin  turned  upon  him. 

"  A  cheap  judgment,"  he  remarked  quietly.  "  I  heard 
it  first  in  the  City  Hall  Park,  on  the  lips  of  a  workingman 
who  ought  to  have  known  better.  I  have  heard  it  often 
since,  and  each  time  the  clap-trap  of  it  nauseates  me.  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  To  hear  that  great  and 
noble  man's  name  upon  your  lips  is  like  finding  a  dew-drop 
in  a  cesspool.  You  are  disgusting." 

It  was  like  a  thunderbolt.  Judge  Blount  glared  at  him 
with  apoplectic  countenance,  and  silence  reigned.  Mr. 
Morse  was  secretly  pleased.  He  could  see  that  his 
daughter  was  shocked.  It  was  what  he  wanted  to 
do  —  to  bring  out  the  innate  ruffianism  of  this  man  he 
did  not  like. 

Ruth's  hand  sought  Martin's  beseechingly  under  the  table, 


324  MARTIN  EDEN 

but  his  blood  was  up.  He  was  inflamed  by  the  intellectual 
pretence  and  fraud  of  those  who  sat  in  the  high  places. 
A  Superior  Court  Judge  !  It  was  only  several  years  before 
that  he  had  looked  up  from  the  mire  at  such  glorious  en 
tities  and  deemed  them  gods. 

Judge  Blount  recovered  himself  and  attempted  to  go 
on,  addressing  himself  to  Martin  with  an  assumption  of 
politeness  that  the  latter  understood  was  for  the  benefit  of 
the  ladies.  Even  this  added  to  his  anger.  Was  there  no 
honesty  in  the  world  ? 

"  You  can't  discuss  Spencer  with  me,"  he  cried.  "  You 
do  not  know  any  more  about  Spencer  than  do  his  own 
countrymen.  But  it  is  no  fault  of  yours,  I  grant.  It  is 
just  a  phase  of  the  contemptible  ignorance  of  the  times. 
I  ran  across  a  sample  of  it  on  my  way  here  this  evening. 
I  was  reading  an  essay  by  Saleeby  on  Spencer.  You 
should  read  it.  It  is  accessible  to  all  men.  You  can  buy 
it  in  any  book-store  or  draw  it  from  the  public  library. 
You  would  feel  ashamed  of  your  paucity  of  abuse  and  ig 
norance  of  that  noble  man  compared  with  what  Saleeby 
has  collected  on  the  subject.  It  is  a  record  of  shame  that 
would  shame  your  shame. 

"  '  The  philosopher  of  the  half-educated,'  he  was  called 
by  an  academic  philosopher  who  was  not  worthy  to  pollute 
the  atmosphere  he  breathed.  I  don't  think  you  have  read 
ten  pages  of  Spencer,  but  there  have  been  critics,  assumably 
more  intelligent  than  you,  who  have  read  no  more  than 
you  of  Spencer,  who  publicly  challenged  his  followers  to 
adduce  one  single  idea  from  all  his  writings  —  from  Her 
bert  Spencer's  writings,  the  man  who  has  impressed  the 
stamp  of  his  genius  over  the  whole  field  of  scientific  re 
search  and  modern  thought ;  the  father  of  psychology ; 
the  man  who  revolutionized  pedagogy,  so  that  to-day  the 
child  of  the  French  peasant  is  taught  the  three  R's  accord 
ing  to  principles  laid  down  by  him.  And  the  little  gnats 
of  men  sting  his  memory  when  they  get  their  very  bread 
and  butter  from  the  technical  application  of  his  ideas. 
What  little  of  worth  resides  in  their  brains  is  largely  due  to 
him.  It  is  certain  that  had  he  never  lived,  most  of  what 


MARTIN  EDEN  325 

is  correct  in  their  parrot-learned  knowledge  would  be 
absent. 

"  And  yet  a  man  like  Principal  Fairbanks  of  Oxford  — 
a  man  who  sits  in  an  even  higher  place  than  you,  Judge 
Blount  —  has  said  that  Spencer  will  be  dismissed  by  pos 
terity  as  a  poet  and  dreamer  rather  than  a  thinker. 
Yappers  and  blatherskites,  the  whole  brood  of  them! 
4 "First  Principles"  is  not  wholly  destitute  of  a  certain  lit 
erary  power,'  said  one  of  them.  And  others  of  them  have 
said  that  he  was  an  industrious  plodder  rather  than  an 
original  thinker.  Yappers  and  blatherskites  !  Yappers 
and  blatherskites  !  " 

Martin  ceased  abruptly,  in  a  dead  silence.  Everybody 
in  Ruth's  family  looked  up  to  Judge  Blount  as  a  man  of 
power  and  achievement,  and  they  were  horrified  at  Mar 
tin's  outbreak.  The  remainder  of  the  dinner  passed  like 
a  funeral,  the  judge  and  Mr.  Morse  confining  their  talk  to 
each  other,  and  the  rest  of  the  conversation  being  ex 
tremely  desultory.  Then  afterward,  when  Ruth  and 
Martin  were  alone,  there  was  a  scene. 

"  You  are  unbearable,"  she  wept. 

But  his  anger  still  smouldered,  and  he  kept  muttering, 
"  The  beasts  !  The  beasts  !  " 

When  she  averred  he  had  insulted  the  judge,  he  re 
torted  :  — 

"  By  telling  the  truth  about  him  ?  " 

"  I  don't  care  whether  it  was  true  or  not,"  she  insisted. 
"  There  are  certain  bounds  of  decency,  and  you  had  no 
license  to  insult  anybody." 

"  Then  where  did  Judge  Blount  get  the  license  to  as 
sault  truth  ?  "  Martin  demanded.  "  Surely  to  assault 
truth  is  a  more  serious  misdemeanor  than  to  insult  a  pygmy 
personality  such  as  the  judge's.  He  did  worse  than  that. 
He  blackened  the  name  of  a  great,  noble  man  who  is  dead. 
Oh,  the  beasts  !  The  beasts  !  " 

His  complex  anger  flamed  afresh,  and  Ruth  was  in  ter 
ror  of  him.  Never  had  she  seen  him  so  angry,  and  it  was 
all  mystified  and  unreasonable  to  her  comprehension. 
And  yet,  through  her  very  terror  ran  the  fibres  of  fascina- 


326  MARTIN  EDEN 

tion  that  had  drawn  and  that  still  drew  her  to  him  —  that 
had  compelled  her  to  lean  towards  him,  and,  in  that  mad 
culminating  moment,  lay  her  hands  upon  his  neck.  She 
was  hurt  and  outraged  by  what  had  taken  place,  and  yet 
she  lay  in  his  arms  and  quivered  while  he  went  on  mutterc 
ing,  "  The  beasts  !  The  beasts  !  "  And  she  still  lay  thero 
when  he  said :  "  I'll  not  bother  your  table  again,  dear. 
They  do  not  like  me,  and  it  is  wrong  of  me  to  thrust  my 
objectionable  presence  upon  them.  Besides,  they  are  just 
as  objectionable  to  me.  Faugh  !  They  are  sickening. 
And  to  think  of  it,  I  dreamed  in  my  innocence  that  the 
persons  who  sat  in  the  high  places,  who  liyed  in  fine 
houses  and  had  educations  and  bank  accounts,  were  worth 
while  1 " 


CHAPTER  XXXVIH 

"  COME  on,  let's  go  down  to  the  local." 

So  spoke  Brissenden,  faint  from  a  hemorrhage  of  half 
an  hour  before  —  the  second  hemorrhage  in  three  days. 
The  perennial  whiskey  glass  was  in  his  hands,  and  he 
drained  it  with  shaking  fingers. 

"  What  do  I  want  with  socialism  ?  "  Martin  demanded. 

"  Outsiders  are  allowed  five-minute  speeches,"  the  sick 
man  urged.  "Get  up  and  spout.  Tell  them  why  you 
don't  want  socialism.  Tell  them  what  you  think  about 
them  and  their  ghetto  ethics.  Slam  Nietzsche  into 
them  and  get  walloped  for  your  pains.  Make  a  scrap  of 
it.  It  will  do  them  good.  Discussion  is  what  they  want, 
and  what  you  want,  too.  You  see,  I'd  like  to  see  you  a 
socialist  before  I'm  gone.  It  will  give  you  a  sanction  for 
your  existence.  It  is  the  one  thing  that  will  save  you  in 
the  time  of  disappointment  that  is  coming  to  you." 

"  I  never  can  puzzle  out  why  you,  of  all  men,  are  a  so 
cialist,"  Martin  pondered.  "You  detest  the  crowd  so. 
Surely  there  is  nothing  in  the  canaille  to  recommend  it  to 
your  aesthetic  soul."  He  pointed  an  accusing  finger  at 
the  whiskey  glass  which  the  other  was  refilling.  "  Social 
ism  doesn't  seem  to  save  you." 

"  I'm  very  sick,"  was  the  answer.  "  With  you  it  is  dif 
ferent.  You  have  health  and  much  to  live  for,  and  you 
must  be  handcuffed  to  life  somehow.  As  for  me,  you  won 
der  why  I  am  a  socialist.  I'll  tell  you.  It  is  because 
socialism  is  inevitable  ;  because  the  present  rotten  and  ir 
rational  system  cannot  endure  ;  because  the  day  is  past  for 
your  man  on  horseback.  The  slaves  won't  stand  for  it. 
They  are  too  many,  and  willy-nilly  they'll  drag  down  the 
would-be  equestrian  before  ever  he  gets  astride.  You  can't 
get  away  from  them,  and  you'll  have  to  swallow  the  whole 

327 


328  MARTIN  EDEN 

slave-morality.  It's  not  a  nice  mess,  I'll  allow.  But  it's 
been  a-brewing  and  swallow  it  you  must.  You  are  antedi 
luvian  anyway,  with  your  Nietzsche  ideas.  The  past  is 
past,  and  the  man  who  says  history  repeats  itself  is  a  liar. 
Of  course  I  don't  like  the  crowd,  but  what's  a  poor  chap  to 
do?  We  can't  have  the  man  on  horseback,  and  anything 
is  preferable  to  the  timid  swine  that  now  rule.  But  come 
on,  anyway.  I'm  loaded  to  the  guards  now,  and  if  I  sit 
here  any  longer,  I'll  get  drunk.  And  you  know  the  doc 
tor  says  —  damn  the  doctor !  I'll  fool  him  yet." 

It  was  Sunday  night,  and  they  found  the  small  hall 
packed  by  the  Oakland  socialists,  chiefly  members  of  the 
working  class.  The  speaker,  a  clever  Jew,  won  Martin's 
admiration  at  the  same  time  that  he  aroused  his  antagonism. 
The  man's  stooped  and  narrow  shoulders  and  weazened 
chest  proclaimed  him  the  true  child  of  the  crowded  ghetto, 
and  strong  on  Martin  was  the  age-long  struggle  of  the 
feeble,  wretched  slaves  against  the  lordly  handful  of  men 
who  had  ruled  over  them  and  would  rule  over  them  to  the 
end  of  time.  To  Martin  this  withered  wisp  of  a  creature 
was  a  symbol.  He  was  the  figure  that  stood  forth  repre 
sentative  of  the  whole  miserable  mass  of  weaklings  and 
inefficients  who  perished  according  to  biological  law  on  the 
ragged  confines  of  life.  They  were  the  unfit.  In  spite  of 
their  cunning  philosophy  and  of  their  antlike  proclivities 
for  cooperation,  Nature  rejected  them  for  the  exceptional 
man.  Out  of  the  plentiful  spawn  of  life  she  flung  from 
her  prolific  hand  she  selected  only  the  best.  It  was  by  the 
same  method  that  men,  aping  her,  bred  race-horses  and  cu 
cumbers.  Doubtless,  a  creator  of  a  Cosmos  could  have  de 
vised  a  better  method;  but  creatures  of  this  particular 
Cosmos  must  put  up  with  this  particular  method.  Of 
course,  they  could  squirm  as  they  perished,  as  the  social 
ists  squirmed,  as  the  speaker  on  the  platform  and  the  per 
spiring  crowd  were  squirming  even  now  as  they  counselled 
together  for  some  new  device  with  which  to  minimize  the 
penalties  of  living  and  outwit  the  Cosmos. 

So  Martin  thought,  and  so  he  spoke  when  Brissenden 
urged  him  to  give  them  hell.  He  obeyed  the  mandate, 


MARTIN  EDEN  329 

walking  up  to  the  platform,  as  was  the  custom,  and  ad 
dressing  the  chairman.  He  began  in  a  low  voice,  haltingly, 
forming  into  order  the  ideas  which  had  surged  in  his 
brain  while  the  Jew  was  speaking.  In  such  meetings  five 
minutes  was  the  time  allotted  to  each  speaker ;  but  when 
Martin's  five  minutes  were  up,  he  was  in  full  stride,  his  at 
tack  upon  their  doctrines  but  half  completed.  He  had 
caught  their  interest,  and  the  audience  urged  the  chair 
man  by  acclamation  to  extend  Martin's  time.  They  ap 
preciated  him  as  a  f  oeman  worthy  of  their  intellect,  and  they 
listened  intently,  following  every  word.  He  spoke  with 
fire  and  conviction,  mincing  no  words  in  his  attack  upon 
the  slaves  and  their  morality  and  tactics  and  frankly  al 
luding  to  his  hearers  as  the  slaves  in  question.  He  quoted 
Spencer  and  Malthus,  and  enunciated  the  biological  law 
of  development. 

"  And  so,"  he  concluded,  in  a  swift  resume,  "  no  state 
composed  of  the  slave-types  can  endure.  The  old  law  of 
development  still  holds.  In  the  struggle  for  existence,  as 
I  have  shown,  the  strong  and  the  progeny  of  the  strong 
tend  to  survive,  while  the  weak  and  the  progeny  of  the 
weak  are  crushed  and  tend  to  perish.  The  result  is  that 
the  strong  and  the  progeny  of  the  strong  survive,  and,  so 
long  as  the  struggle  obtains,  the  strength  of  each  genera 
tion  increases.  That  is  development.  But  you  slaves  — 
it  is  too  bad  to  be  slaves,  I  grant  —  but  you  slaves  dream 
of  a  society  where  the  law  of  development  will  be  annulled, 
where  no  weaklings  and  inefficients  will  perish,  where 
every  inefficient  will  have  as  much  as  he  wants  to  eat  as 
many  times  a  day  as  he  desires,  and  where  all  will  marry 
and  have  progeny  —  the  weak  as  well  as  the  strong. 
What  will  be  the  result  ?  No  longer  will  the  strength 
and  life-value  of  each  generation  increase.  On  the  con 
trary,  it  will  diminish.  There  is  the  Nemesis  of  your 
slave  philosophy.  Your  society  of  slaves  —  of,  by,  and 
for,  slaves  —  must  inevitably  weaken  and  go  to  pieces  as 
the  life  which  composes  it  weakens  and  goes  to  pieces. 

"Remember,  I  am  enunciating  biology  and  not  senti 
mental  ethics.  No  state  of  slaves  can  stand  —  " 


330  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  How  about  the  United  States  ?  "  a  man  yelled  from  the 
audience. 

"  And  how  about  it  ?  "  Martin  retorted.  "  The  thirteen 
colonies  threw  off  their  rulers  and  formed  the  Republic 
so-called.  The  slaves  were  their  own  masters.  There 
were  no  more  masters  of  the  sword.  But  you  couldn't 
get  along  without  masters  of  some  sort,  and  there  arose  a 
new  set  of  masters  —  not  the  great,  virile,  noble  men,  but 
the  shrewd  and  spidery  traders  and  money-lenders.  And 
they  enslaved  you  over  again  —  but  not  frankly,  as  the 
true,  noble  men  would  do  with  weight  of  their  own  right 
arms,  but  secretly,  by  spidery  machinations  and  by  whee 
dling  and  cajolery  and  lies.  They  have  purchased  your 
slave  judges,  they  have  debauched  your  slave  legislatures, 
and  they  have  forced  to  worse  horrors  than  chattel  slavery 
your  slave  boys  and  girls.  Two  million  of  your  children 
are  toiling  to-day  in  this  trader-oligarchy  of  the  United 
States.  Ten  millions  of  you  slaves  are  not  properly  shel 
tered  nor  properly  fed. 

"  But  to  return.  I  have  shown  that  no  society  of  slaves 
can  endure,  because,  in  its  very  nature,  such  society  must 
annul  the  law  of  development.  No  sooner  can  a  slave 
society  be  organized  than  deterioration  sets  in.  It  is  easy 
for  you  to  talk  of  annulling  the  law  of  development,  but 
where  is  the  new  law  of  development  that  will  maintain 
your  strength  ?  Formulate  it.  Is  it  already  formulated  ? 
Then  state  it." 

Martin  took  his  seat  amidst  an  uproar  of  voices.  A 
score  of  men  were  on  their  feet  clamoring  for  recognition 
from  the  chair.  And  one  by  one,  encouraged  by  vocifer 
ous  applause,  speaking  with  fire  and  enthusiasm  and  ex 
cited  gestures,  they  replied  to  the  attack.  It  was  a  wild 
night  —  but  it  was  wild  intellectually,  a  battle  of  ideas. 
Some  strayed  from  the  point,  but  most  of  the  speakers 
replied  directly  to  Martin.  They  shook  him  with  lines 
of  thought  that  were  new  to  him;  and  gave  him  insights, 
not  into  new  biological  laws,  but  into  new  applications  of  the 
old  laws.  They  were  too  earnest  to  be  always  polite,  and 
more  than  once  the  chairman  rapped  and  pounded  for  order. 


MARTIN  EDEN  331 

It  chanced  that  a  cub  reporter  sat  in  the  audience,  de 
tailed  there  on  a  day  dull  of  news  and  impressed  by  the 
urgent  need  of  journalism  for  sensation.  He  was  not  a 
bright  cub  reporter.  He  was  merely  facile  and  glib.  He 
was  too  dense  to  follow  the  discussion.  In  fact,  he  had  a 
comfortable  feeling  that  he  was  vastly  superior  to  these 
wordy  maniacs  of  the  working  class.  Also,  he  had  a 
great  respect  for  those  who  sat  in  the  high  places  and 
dictated  the  policies  of  nations  and  newspapers.  Further,, 
he  had  an  ideal,  namely,  of  achieving  that  excellence  of 
the  perfect  reporter  who  is  able  to  make  something  —  even 
a  great  deal  —  out  of  nothing 

He  did  not  know  what  all  the  talk  was  about.  It 
was  not  necessary.  Words  like  revolution  gave  him  his 
cue.  Like  a  paleontologist,  able  to  reconstruct  an  entire 
skeleton  from  one  fossil  bone,  he  was  able  to  reconstruct 
a  whole  speech  from  the  one  word  revolution.  He  did  it 
that  night,  and  he  did  it  well;  and  since  Martin  had 
made  the  biggest  stir,  he  put  it  all  into  his  mouth  and 
made  him  the  arch-anarch  of  the  show,  transforming  his 
reactionary  individualism  into  the  most  lurid,  red-shirt 
socialist  utterance.  The  cub  reporter  was  an  artist,  and 
it  was  a  large  brush  with  which  he  laid  on  the  local  color 
—  wild-eyed  long-haired  men,  neurasthenic  and  degene 
rate  types  of  men,  voices  shaken  with  passion,  clenched 
fists  raised  on  high,  and  all  projected  against  a  back 
ground  of  oaths,  yells,  and  the  throaty  rumbling  of  angry 
men. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

OVER  the  coffee,  in  his  little  room,  Martin  read  next 
morning's  paper.  It  was  a  novel  experience  to  find  him 
self  head-lined,  on  the  first  page  at  that ;  and  he  was  sur 
prised  to  learn  that  he  was  the  most  notorious  leader  of 
the  Oakland  socialists.  He  ran  over  the  violent  speech 
the  cub  reporter  had  constructed  for  him,  and,  though  at 
first  he  was  angered  by  the  fabrication,  in  the  end  he 
tossed  the  paper  aside  with  a  laugh. 

"  Either  the  man  was  drunk  or  criminally  malicious,"  he 
said  that  afternoon,  from  his  perch  on  the  bed,  when  Bris- 
senden  had  arrived  and  dropped  limply  into  the  one  chair. 

"  But  what  do  you  care  ?  "  Brissenden  asked.  "  Surely 
you  don't  desire  the  approval  of  the  bourgeois  swine  that 
read  the  newspapers  ?  " 

Martin  thought  for  a  while,  then  said  :  — 

"  No,  I  really  don't  care  for  their  approval,  not  a  whit. 
On  the  other  hand,  it's  very  likely  to  make  my  relations 
with  Ruth's  family  a  trifle  awkward.  Her  father  always 
contended  I  was  a  socialist,  and  this  miserable  stuff  will 
clinch  his  belief.  Not  that  I  care  for  his  opinion  —  but 
what's  the  odds  ?  I  want  to  read  you  what  I've  been 
doing  to-day.  It's  '  Overdue,'  of  course,  and  I'm  just 
about  halfway  through." 

He  was  reading  aloud  when  Maria  thrust  open  the  door 
and  ushered  in  a  young  man  in  a  natty  suit  who  glanced 
briskly  about  him,  noting  the  oil-burner  and  the  kitchen  in 
the  corner  before  his  gaze  wandered  on  to  Martin. 

"  Sit  down,"  Brissenden  said. 

Martin  made  room  for  the  young  man  on  the  bed  and 
waited  for  him  to  broach  his  business. 

"  I  heard  you  speak  last  night,  Mr.  Eden,  and  I've  como 
to  interview  you,"  he  began. 

Brissenden  burst  out  in  a  hearty  laugh. 

332 


MARTIN  EDEN  333 

"  A  brother  socialist  ?  "  the  reporter  asked,  with  a  quick 
glance  at  Brissenden  that  appraised  the  color-value  of  that 
cadaverous  and  dying  man.  9 

"  And  he  wrote  that  report,"  Martin  said  softly.  "  Why, 
he  is  only  a  boy ! " 

"  Why  don't  you  poke  him  ?  "  Brissenden  asked.  "  I'd 
give  a  thousand  dollars  to  have  my  lungs  back  for  five 
minutes." 

The  cub  reporter  was  a  trifle  perplexed  by  this  talking 
over  him  and  around  him  and  at  him.  But  he  had  been 
commended  for  his  brilliant  description  of  the  socialist 
meeting  and  had  further  been  detailed  to  get  a  personal 
interview  with  Martin  Eden,  the  leader  of  the  organized 
menace  to  society. 

"  You  do  not  object  to  having  your  picture  taken,  Mr. 
Eden  ?  "  he  said.  "  I've  a  staff  photographer  outside,  you 
see,  and  he  says  it  will  be  better  to  take  you  right  away 
before  the  sun  gets  lower.  Then  we  can  have  the  inter 
view  afterward." 

"A  photographer,"  Brissenden  said  meditatively. 
" Poke  him,  Martin!  Poke  himl " 

"  I  guess  I'm  getting  old,"  was  the  answer.  "  I  know  I 
ought,  but  I  really  haven't  the  heart.  It  doesn't  seem  to 
matter." 

"  For  his  mother's  sake,"  Brissenden  urged. 

"  It's  worth  considering,"  Martin  replied ;  <f  but  it 
doesn't  seem  worth  while  enough  to  rouse  sufficient  en 
ergy  in  me.  You  see,  it  does  take  energy  to  give  a  fellow 
a  poking.  Besides,  what  does  it  matter  ?  " 

"  That's  right  —  that's  the  way  to  take  it,"  the  cub  an 
nounced  airily,  though  he  had  already  begun  to  glance 
anxiously  at  the  door. 

"But  it  wasn't  true,  not  a  word  of  what  he  wrote," 
Martin  went  on,  confining  his  attention  to  Brissenden. 

"  It  was  just  in  a  general  way  a  description,  you  under 
stand,"  the  cub  ventured,  "  and  besides,  it's  good  advertis 
ing.  That's  what  counts.  It  was  a  favor  to  you." 

"It's  good  advertising,  Martin,  old  boy,"  Brissenden 
repeated  solemnly. 


334  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  And  it  was  a  favor  to  me  —  think  of  that !  "  was  Mar- 
tin's  contribution. 

"  Let  me  see  —  where  were  you  born,  Mr.  Eden  ?  "  the 
cub  asked,  assuming  an  air  of  expectant  attention. 

"He  doesn't  take  notes,"  said  Brissenden.  "He  re 
members  it  all." 

"  That  is  sufficient  for  me. "  The  cub  was  trying  not  to  look 
worried.  "  No  decent  reporter  needs  to  bother  with  notes. " 

"That  was  sufficient  —  for  last  night."  But  Bris 
senden  was  not  a  disciple  of  quietism,  and  he  changed  his 
attitude  abruptly.  "  Martin,  if  you  don't  poke  him,  I'll  do 
it  myself,  if  I  fall  dead  on  the  floor  the  next  moment." 

"  How  will  a  spanking  do  ?  "  Martin  asked. 

Brissenden  considered  judicially,  and  nodded  his  head. 

The  next  instant  Martin  was  seated  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed  with  the  cub  face  downward  across  his  knees. 

"  Now  don't  bite,"  Martin  warned,  "  or  else  I'll  have  to 
punch  your  face.  It  would  be  a  pity,  for  it  is  such  a 
pretty  face." 

His  uplifted  hand  descended,  and  thereafter  rose  and 
fell  in  a  swift  and  steady  rhythm.  The  cub  struggled  and 
cursed  and  squirmed,  but  did  not  offer  to  bite.  Brissen 
den  looked  on  gravely,  though  once  he  grew  excited  and 
gripped  the  whiskey  bottle,  pleading,  "  Here,  just  let  me 
swat  him  once." 

"  Sorry  my  hand  played  out,"  Martin  said,  when  at  last 
he  desisted.  "  It  is  quite  numb." 

He  uprighted  the  cub  and  perched  him  on  the  bed. 

"  I'll  have  you  arrested  for  this,"  he  snarled,  tears  of 
boyish  indignation  running  down  his  flushed  cheeks.  "  I'll 
make  you  sweat  for  this.  You'll  see." 

"The  pretty  thing,"  Martin  remarked.  "He  doesn't 
realize  that  he  has  entered  upon  the  downward  path.  It 
is  not  honest,  it  is  not  square,  it  is  not  manly,  to  tell  lies 
about  one's  fellow-creatures  the  way  he  has  done,  and  he 
doesn't  know  it." 

"  He  has  to  come  to  us  to  be  told,"  Brissenden  filled  in 
a  pause. 

"Yes,  to  me  whom  he  has  maligned  and  injured.     My 


MARTIN  EDEN  335 

grocery  will  undoubtedly  refuse  me  credit  now.  The 
worst  of  it  is  that  the  poor  boy  will  keep  on  this  way  until 
he  deteriorates  into  a  first-class  newspaper  man  and  also  a 
first-class  scoundrel." 

"  But  there  is  yet  time,"  quoth  Brissenden.  "  Who  knows 
but  what  you  may  prove  the  humble  instrument  to  save 
him.  Why  didn't  you  let  me  swat  him  just  once  ?  I'd 
like  to  have  had  a  hand  in  it." 

"  I'll  have  you  arrested,  the  pair  of  you,  you  b-b-big 
brutes,"  sobbed  the  erring  soul. 

"  No,  his  mouth  is  too  pretty  and  too  weak."  Martin 
shook  his  head  lugubriously.  "I'm  afraid  I've  numbed 
my  hand  in  vain.  The  young  man  cannot  reform.  He 
will  become  eventually  a  very  great  and  successful  news 
paper  man.  He  has  no  conscience.  That  alone  will  make 
him  great." 

With  that  the  cub  passed  out  the  door  in  trepidation  to 
the  last  for  fear  that  Brissenden  would  hit  him  in  the  back 
with  the  bottle  he  still  clutched. 

In  the  next  morning's  paper  Martin  learned  a  great  deal 
more  about  himself  that  was  new  to  him.  "  We  are  the 
sworn  enemies  of  society,"  he  found  himself  quoted  as 
saying  in  a  column  interview.  "  No,  we  are  not  anarchists 
but  socialists."  When  the  reporter  pointed  out  to  him 
that  there  seemed  little  difference  between  the  two  schools, 
Martin  had  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  silent  affirmation. 
His  face  was  described  as  bilaterally  asymmetrical,  and 
various  other  signs  of  degeneration  were  described.  Es 
pecially  notable  were  his  thuglike  hands  and  the  fiery 
gleams  in  his  blood-shot  eyes. 

He  learned,  also,  that  he  spoke  nightly  to  the  workmen 
in  the  City  Hall  Park,  and  that  among  the  anarchists  and 
agitators  that  there  inflamed  the  minds  of  the  people  he 
drew  the  largest  audiences  and  made  the  most  revolutionary 
speeches.  The  cub  painted  a  high-light  picture  of  his  poor 
little  room,  its  oil-stove  and  the  one  chair,  and  of  the 
death's-head  tramp  who  kept  him  company  and  who  looked 
as  if  he  had  just  emerged  from  twenty  years  of  solitary 
confinement  in  some  fortress  dungeon. 


336  MARTIN  EDEN 

The  cub  had  been  industrious.  He  had  scurried  around 
and  nosed  out  Martin's  family  history,  and  procured  a 
photograph  of  Higginbotham's  Cash  Store  with  Bernard 
Higginbotham  himself  standing  out  in  front.  That  gen 
tleman  was  depicted  as  an  intelligent,  dignified  business 
man  who  had  no  patience  with  his  brother-in-law's  social 
istic  views,  and  no  patience  with  the  brother-in-law,  either, 
whom  he  was  quoted  as  characterizing  as  a  lazy  good-for- 
nothing  who  wouldn't  take  a  job  when  it  was  offered  to 
him  and  who  would  go  to  jail  yet.  Hermann  von  Schmidt, 
Marian's  husband,  had  likewise  been  interviewed.  He  had 
called  Martin  the  black  sheep  of  the  family  and  repudiated 
him.  "  He  tried  to  sponge  off  of  me,  but  I  put  a  stop  to 
that  good  and  quick,"  Von  Schmidt  had  said  to  the  re 
porter.  "  He  knows  better  than  to  come  bumming  around 
here.  A  man  who  won't  work  is  no  good,  take  that  from 
me." 

This  time  Martin  was  genuinely  angry.  Brissenden 
looked  upon  the  affair  as  a  good  joke,  but  he  could  not 
console  Martin,  who  knew  that  it  would  be  no  easy  task 
to  explain  to  Ruth.  As  for  her  father,  he  knew  that  he 
must  be  overjoyed  with  what  had  happened  and  that  he 
would  make  the  most  of  it  to  break  off  the  engagement. 
How  much  he  would  make  of  it  he  was  soon  to  realize.  The 
afternoon  mail  brought  a  letter  from  Ruth.  Martin  opened 
it  with  a  premonition  of  disaster,  and  read  it  standing  at 
the  open  door  when  he  had  received  it  from  the  postman. 
As  he  read,  mechanically  his  hand  sought  his  pocket  for 
the  tobacco  and  brown  paper  of  his  old  cigarette  days. 
He  was  not  aware  that  the  pocket  was  empty  or  that  he 
had  even  reached  for  the  materials  with  which  to  roll  a 
cigarette. 

It  was  not  a  passionate  letter.  There  were  no  touches 
of  anger  in  it.  But  all  the  way  through,  from  the  first 
sentence  to  the  last,  was  sounded  the  note  of  hurt  and 
disappointment.  She  had  expected  better  of  him.  She 
had  thought  he  had  got  over  his  youthful  wildness,  that 
her  love  for  him  had  been  sufficiently  worth  while  to  en 
able  him  to  live  seriously  and  decently.  And  now  her 


MARTIN  EDEN  337 

father  and  mother  had  taken  a  firm  stand  and  commanded 
that  the  engagement  be  broken.  That  they  were  justified 
in  this  she  could  not  but  admit.  Their  relation  could 
never  be  a  happy  one.  It  had  been  unfortunate  from  the 
first.  But  one  regret  she  voiced  in  the  whole  letter,  and 
it  was  a  bitter  one  to  Martin.  "  If  only  you  had  settled 
down  to  some  position  and  attempted  to  make  something 
of  yourself,"  she  wrote.  "  But  it  was  not  to  be.  Your 
past  life  had  been  too  wild  and  irregular.  I  can  under 
stand  that  you  are  not  to  be  blamed.  You  could  act  only 
according  to  your  nature  and  your  early  training.  So  I 
do  not  blame  you,  Martin.  Please  remember  that.  It  was 
simply  a  mistake.  As  father  and  mother  have  contended, 
we  were  not  made  for  each  other,  and  we  should  both  be 
happy  because  it  was  discovered  not  too  late."  .  .  .  "There 
is  no  use  trying  to  see  me,"  she  said  toward  the  last.  "  It 
would  be  an  unhappy  meeting  for  both  of  us,  as  well  as  for 
my  mother.  I  feel,  as  it  is,  that  I  have  caused  her  great 
pain  and  worry.  I  shall  have  to  do  much  living  to  atone 
for  it." 

He  read  it  through  to  the  end,  carefully,  a  second 
time,  then  sat  down  and  replied.  He  outlined  the  re 
marks  he  had  uttered  at  the  socialist  meeting,  pointing 
out  that  they  were  in  all  ways  the  converse  of  what  the 
newspaper  had  put  in  his  mouth.  Toward  the  end  of  the 
letter  he  was  God's  own  lover  pleading  passionately  for 
love.  "Please  answer,"  he  said,  "and  in  your  answer 
you  have  to  tell  me  but  one  thing.  Do  you  love  me? 
That  is  all  —  the  answer  to  that  one  question." 

But  no  answer  came  the  next  day,  nor  the  next.  "  Over 
due  "  lay  untouched  upon  the  table,  and  each  day  the  heap 
ef  returned  manuscripts  under  the  table  grew  larger. 
For  the  first  time  Martin's  glorious  sleep  was  interrupted 
by  insomnia,  and  he  tossed  through  long,  restless  nights. 
Three  times  he  called  at  the  Morse  home,  but  was  turned 
away  by  the  servant  who  answered  the  bell.  Brissenden 
lay  sick  in  his  hotel,  too  feeble  to  stir  out,  and,  though 
Martin  was  with  him  often,  he  did  not  worry  him  with 
his  troubles. 


338  MARTIN  EDEN 

For  Martin's  troubles  were  many.  The  aftermath  of 
the  cub  reporter's  deed  was  even  wider  than  Martin  had 
anticipated.  The  Portuguese  grocer  refused  him  further 
credit,  while  the  greengrocer,  who  was  an  American  and 
proud  of  it,  had  called  him  a  traitor  to  his  country  and 
refused  further  dealings  with  him  —  carrying  his  patriot 
ism  to  such  a  degree  that  he  cancelled  Martin's  account 
and  forbade  him  ever  to  attempt  to  pay  it.  The  talk 
in  the  neighborhood  reflected  the  same  feeling,  and  in 
dignation  against  Martin  ran  high.  No  one  would  have 
anything  to  do  with  a  socialist  traitor.  Poor  Maria  was 
dubious  and  frightened,  but  she  remained  loyal.  The 
children  of  the  neighborhood  recovered  from  the  awe  of 
the  grand  carriage  which  once  had  visited  Martin,  and 
from  safe  distances  they  called  him  "  hobo  "  and  "  bum." 
The  Silva  tribe,  however,  stanchly  defended  him,  fight 
ing  more  than  one  pitched  battle  for  his  honor,  and  black 
eyes  and  bloody  noses  became  quite  the  order  of  the  day 
and  added  to  Maria's  perplexities  and  troubles. 

Once,  Martin  met  Gertrude  on  the  street,  down  in  Oak 
land,  and  learned  what  he  knew  could  not  be  otherwise 
—  that  Bernard  Higginbotham  was  furious  with  him  for 
having  dragged  the  family  into  public  disgrace,  and  that 
he  had  forbidden  him  the  house. 

"Why  don't  you  go  away,  Martin  ? "  Gertrude  had 
begged.  "  Go  away  and  get  a  job  somewhere  and  steady 
down.  Afterwards,  when  this  all  blows  over,  you  can 
come  back." 

Martin  shook  his  head,  but  gave  no  explanations.  How 
could  he  explain  ?  He  was  appalled  at  the  awful  intellec 
tual  chasm  that  yawned  between  him  and  his  people.  He 
could  never  cross  it  and  explain  to  them  his  position,  —  the 
Nietzschean  position,  in  regard  to  socialism.  There  were 
not  words  enough  in  the  English  language,  nor  in  any 
language,  to  make  his  attitude  and  conduct  intelligible  to 
them.  Their  highest  concept  of  right  conduct,  in  his  case, 
was  to  get  a  job.  That  was  their  first  word  and  their  last. 
It  constituted  their  whole  lexicon  of  ideas.  Get  a  job  ! 
Go  to  work  !  Poor,  stupid  slaves,  he  thought,  while  his 


MARTIN  EDEN  339 

sister  talked.  Small  wonder  the  world  belonged  to  the 
strong.  The  slaves  were  obsessed  by  their  own  slavery. 
A  job  was  to  them  a  golden  fetich  before  which  they  fell 
down  and  worshipped. 

He  shook  his  head  again,  when  Gertrude  offered  him 
money,  though  he  knew  that  within  the  day  he  would 
have  to  make  a  trip  to  the  pawnbroker. 

"  Don't  come  near  Bernard  now,"  she  admonished  him. 
"  After  a  few  months,  when  he  is  cooled  down,  if  you 
want  to,  you  can  get  the  job  of  drivin'  delivery-wagon  for 
him.  Any  time  you  want  me,  just  send  for  me  an'  I'll 
come.  Don't  forget." 

She  went  away  weeping  audibly,  and  he  felt  a  pang  of 
sorrow  shoot  through  him  at  sight  of  her  heavy  body 
and  uncouth  gait.  As  he  watched  her  go,  the  Nietzschean 
edifice  seemed  to  shake  and  totter.  The  slave-class  in 
the  abstract  was  all  very  well,  but  it  was  not  wholly 
satisfactory  when  it  was  brought  home  to  his  own  family. 
And  yet,  if  there  was  ever  a  slave  trampled  by  the  strong, 
that  slave  was  his  sister  Gertrude.  He  grinned  savagely 
at  the  paradox.  A  fine  Nietzsche-man  he  was,  to  allow 
his  intellectual  concepts  to  be  shaken  by  the  first  sen 
timent  or  emotion  that  strayed  along — ay,  to  be  shakea 
by  the  slave-morality  itself,  for  that  was  what  his  pity  for 
his  sister  really  was.  The  true  noble  men  were  above 
pity  and  compassion.  Pity  and  compassion  had  been  gen 
erated  in  the  subterranean  barracoons  of  the  slaves  and 
were  no  more  than  the  agony  and  sweat  of  the  crowded 
miserables  and  weaklings. 


CHAPTER  XL 

"OVERDUE "still  continued  to  lie  forgotten  on  the  table. 
Every  manuscript  that  he  had  had  out  now  lay  under  the 
table.  Only  one  manuscript  he  kept  going,  and  that  was 
Brissenden's  "  Ephemera."  His  bicycle  and  black  suit 
were  again  in  pawn,  and  the  type-writer  people  were 
once  more  worrying  about  the  rent.  But  such  things  no 
longer  bothered  him.  He  was  seeking  a  new  orientation, 
and  until  that  was  found  his  life  must  stand  still. 

After  several  weeks,  what  he  had  been  waiting  for 
happened.  He  met  Ruth  on  the  street.  It  was  true,  she 
was  accompanied  by  her  brother,  Norman,  and  it  was  true 
that  they  tried  to  ignore  him  and  that  Norman  attempted 
to  wave  him  aside. 

"  If  you  interfere  with  my  sister,  I'll  call  an  officer,'* 
Norman  threatened.  "  She  does  not  wish  to  speak  with 
you,  and  your  insistence  is  insult." 

"  If  you  persist,  you'll  have  to  call  that  officer,  and  then 
you'll  get  your  name  in  the  papers,"  Martin  answered 
grimly.  "And  now,  get  out  of  my  way  and  get  the 
officer  if  you  want  to.  I'm  going  to  talk  with  Ruth. 

"  I  want  to  have  it  from  your  own  lips,"  he  said  to  her. 

She  was  pale  and  trembling,  but  she  held  up  and  looked 
inquiringly. 

"  The  question  I  asked  in  my  letter,"  he  prompted. 

Norman  made  an  impatient  movement,  but  Martin 
checked  him  with  a  swift  look. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Is  all  this  of  your  own  free  will?"  he  demanded. 

"It  is."  She  spoke  in  a  low,  firm  voice  and  with  delib 
eration.  "It  is  of  my  own  free  will.  You  have  dis 
graced  me  so  that  I  am  ashamed  to  meet  my  friends. 
They  are  all  talking  about  me,  I  know.  That  is  all  I  can 

340 


MARTIN  EDEN  341 

tell  you.  You  have  made  me  very  unhappy,  and  I  never 
wish  to  see  you  again." 

"Friends!  Gossip!  Newspaper  misreportsl  Surely 
such  things  are  not  stronger  than  love!  I  can  only 
believe  that  you  never  loved  me." 

A  blush  drove  the  pallor  from  her  face. 

"  After  what  has  passed  ?  "  she  said  faintly.  "  Martin, 
you  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying.  I  am  not 
common." 

"  You  see,  she  doesn't  want  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
you,"  Norman  blurted  out,  starting  on  with  her. 

Martin  stood  aside  and  let  them  pass,  fumbling  uncon 
sciously  in  his  coat  pocket  for  the  tobacco  and  brown 
papers  that  were  not  there. 

It  was  a  long  walk  to  North  Oakland,  but  it  was  not 
until  he  went  up  the  steps  and  entered  his  room  that  he 
knew  he  had  walked  it.  He  found  himself  sitting  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed  and  staring  about  him  like  an  awakened 
somnambulist.  He  noticed  "  Overdue "  lying  on  the 
table  and  drew  up  his  chair  and  reached  for  his  pen. 
There  was  in  his  nature  a  logical  compulsion  toward  com 
pleteness.  Here  was  something  undone.  It  had  been  de 
ferred  against  the  completion  of  something  else.  Now  that 
something  else  had  been  finished,  and  he  would  apply  him 
self  to  this  task  until  it  was  finished.  What  he  would  do 
next  he  did  not  know.  All  that  he  did  know  was  that  a 
climacteric  in  his  life  had  been  attained.  A  period  had 
been  reached,  and  he  was  rounding  it  off  in  workman 
like  fashion.  He  was  not  curious  about  the  future.  He 
would  soon  enough  find  out  what  it  held  in  store  for  him. 
Whatever  it  was,  it  did  not  matter.  Nothing  seemed  to 
matter. 

For  five  days  he  toiled  on  at  "  Overdue,"  going  no 
where,  seeing  nobody,  and  eating  meagrely.  On  the 
morning  of  the  sixth  day  the  postman  brought  him 
a  thin  letter  from  the  editor  of  The  Parthenon.  A 
glance  told  him  that  "  Ephemera  "  was  accepted.  "  We 
have  submitted  the  poem  to  Mr.  Cartwright  Bruce,"  the 
editor  went  on  to  say,  "  and  he  has  reported  so  favorably 


342  MARTIN  EDE1N 

upon  it  that  we  cannot  let  it  go.  As  an  earnest  of  our 
pleasure  in  publishing  the  poem,  let  rne  tell  you  that  we 
have  set  it  for  the  August  number,  our  July  number  be 
ing  already  made  up.  Kindly  extend  our  pleasure  and 
our  thanks  to  Mr.  Brissenden.  Please  send  by  return 
mail  his  photograph  and  biographical  data.  If  our  hono 
rarium  is  unsatisfactory,  kindly  telegraph  us  at  once  and 
state  what  you  consider  a  fair  price." 

Since  the  honorarium  they  had  offered  was  three  hun 
dred  and  fifty  dollars,  Martin  thought  it  not  worth  while 
to  telegraph.  Then,  too,  there  was  Brissenden's  consent 
to  be  gained.  Well,  he  had  been  right,  after  all.  Here 
was  one  magazine  editor  who  knew  real  poetry  when  he 
saw  it.  And  the  price  was  splendid,  even  though  it  was 
for  the  poem  of  a  century.  As  for  Cartwright  Bruce, 
Martin  knew  that  he  was  the  one  critic  for  whose  opin 
ions  Brissenden  had  any  respect. 

Martin  rode  down  town  on  an  electric  car,  and  as  he 
watched  the  houses  and  cross-streets  slipping  by  he  was 
aware  of  a  regret  that  he  was  not  more  elated  over  his 
friend's  success  and  over  his  own  signal  victory.  The 
one  critic  in  the  United  States  had  pronounced  favorably 
on  the  poem,  while  his  own  contention  that  good  stuff 
could  find  its  way  into  the  magazines  had  proved  correct. 
But  enthusiasm  had  lost  its  spring  in  him,  and  he  found 
that  he  was  more  anxious  to  see  Brissenden  than  he  was 
to  carry  the  good  news.  The  acceptance  of  The  Parthe 
non  had  recalled  to  him  that  during  his  five  days'  devo 
tion  to  "  Overdue "  he  had  not  heard  from  Brissenden 
nor  even  thought  about  him.  For  the  first  time  Martin 
realized  the  daze  he  had  been  in,  and  he  felt  shame  for 
having  forgotten  his  friend.  But  even  the  shame  did  not 
burn  very  sharply.  He  was  numb  to  emotions  of  any 
sort  save  the  artistic  ones  concerned  in  the  writing  of 
"Overdue."  So  far  as  other  affairs  were  concerned,  he 
had  been  in  a  trance.  For  that  matter,  he  was  still  in 
a  trance.  All  this  life  through  which  the  electric  car 
whirred  seemed  remote  and  unreal,  and  he  would  have 
experienced  little  interest  and  less  shock  if  the  great 


MARTIN  EDEN  343 

stone  steeple  of  the  church  he  passed  had  suddenly 
crumbled  to  mortar-dust  upon  his  head. 

At  the  hotel  he  hurried  up  to  Brissenden's  room,  and 
hurried  down  again.  The  room  was  empty.  All  lug 
gage  was  gone. 

"Did  Mr.  Brissenden  leave  any  address?"  he  asked 
the  clerk,  who  looked  at  him  curiously  for  a  moment. 

"  Haven't  you  heard  ?  "  he  asked. 

Martin  shook  his  head. 

"  Why,  the  papers  were  full  of  it.  He  was  found  dead 
in  bed.  Suicide.  Shot  himself  through  the  head." 

"  Is  he  buried  yet  ?  "  Martin  seemed  to  hear  his  voice, 
like  some  one  else's  voice,  from  a  long  way  off,  asking  the 
question. 

"  No.  The  body  was  shipped  East  after  the  inquest. 
Lawyers  engaged  by  his  people  saw  to  the  arrange 
ments." 

"  They  were  quick  about  it,  I  must  say,"  Martin  com 
mented. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.     It  happened  five  days  ago.** 

"  Five  days  ago  ?  " 

"Yes,  five  days  ago." 

"  Oh,"  Martin  said  as  he  turned  and  went  out. 

At  the  corner  he  stepped  into  the  Western  Union  and 
sent  a  telegram  to  The  Parthenon,  advising  them  to 
proceed  with  the  publication  of  the  poem.  He  had  in  his 
pocket  but  five  cents  with  which  to  pay  his  carfare  home, 
so  he  sent  the  message  collect. 

Once  in  his  room,  he  resumed  his  writing.  The  days 
and  nights  came  and  went,  and  he  sat  at  his  table  and 
wrote  on.  He  went  nowhere,  save  to  the  pawnbroker, 
took  no  exercise,  and  ate  methodically  when  he  was  hungry 
and  had  something  to  cook,  and  just  as  methodically  went 
without  when  he  had  nothing  to  cook.  Composed  as  the 
story  was,  in  advance,  chapter  by  chapter,  he  nevertheless 
saw  and  developed  an  opening  that  increased  the  power 
of  it,  though  it  necessitated  twenty  thousand  additional 
words.  It  was  not  that  there  was  any  vital  need  that  the 
thing  should  be  well  done,  but  that  his  artistic  canons 


344  MARTIN  EDEN 

compelled  him  to  do  it  well.  He  worked  on  in  the  daze, 
strangely  detached  from  the  world  around  him,  feeling 
like  a  familiar  ghost  among  these  literary  trappings  of  his 
former  life.  He  remembered  that  some  one  had  said  that 
a  ghost  was  the  spirit  of  a  man  who  was  dead  and  who 
did  not  have  sense  enough  to  know  it ;  and  he  paused  for 
the  moment  to  wonder  if  he  were  really  dead  and  unaware 
of  it. 

Came  the  day  when  "  Overdue "  was  finished.  The 
agent  of  the  type-writer  firm  had  come  for  the  machine, 
and  he  sat  on  the  bed  while  Martin,  on  the  one  chair,  typed 
the  last  pages  of  the  final  chapter.  "  Finis,"  he  wrote,  in 
capitals,  at  the  end,  and  to  him  it  was  indeed  finis.  He 
watched  the  type-writer  carried  out  the  door  with  a  feeling 
of  relief,  then  went  over  and  lay  down  on  the  bed.  He 
was  faint  from  hunger.  Food  had  not  passed  his  lips  in 
thirty-six  hours,  but  he  did  not  think  about  it.  He  lay 
on  his  back,  with  closed  eyes,  and  did  not  think  at  all, 
while  the  daze  or  stupor  slowly  welled  up,  saturating  his 
consciousness.  Half  in  delirium,  he  began  muttering  aloud 
the  lines  of  an  anonymous  poem  Brissenden  had  been  fond 
of  quoting  to  him.  Maria,  listening  anxiously  outside  his 
door,  was  perturbed  by  his  monotonous  utterance.  The 
words  in  themselves  were  not  significant  to  her,  but  the 
fact  that  he  was  saying  them  was.  "  I  have  done,"  was 
the  burden  of  the  poem. 

a '  I  have  done  — 
Put  by  the  lute. 
Song  and  singing  soon  are  over 
As  the  airy  shades  that  hover 
In  among  the  purple  clover. 
I  have  done  — 
Put  by  the  lute. 
Once  I  sang  as  early  thrushes 
Sing  among  the  dewy  bushes ; 
Now  I'm  mute. 
I  am  like  a  weary  linnet, 
For  my  throat  has  no  song  in  it  ; 
I  have  had  my  singing  minute. 
I  have  done. 
Put  by  the  lute.'  " 


MARTIN  EDEN  345 

Maria  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  hurried  away  to  the 
stove,  where  she  filled  a  quart-bowl  with  soup,  putting 
into  it  the  lion's  share  of  chopped  meat  and  vegetables 
which  her  ladle  scraped  from  the  bottom  of  the  pot. 
Martin  roused  himself  and  sat  up  and  began  to  eat,  be 
tween  spoonfuls  reassuring  Maria  that  he  had  not  been 
talking  in  his  sleep  and  that  he  did  not  have  any  fever. 

After  she  left  him  he  sat  drearily,  with  drooping 
shoulders,  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  gazing  about  him  with 
lack-lustre  eyes  that  saw  nothing  until  the  torn  wrapper 
of  a  magazine,  which  had  come  in  the  morning's  mail  and 
which  lay  unopened,  shot  a  gleam  of  light  into  his  dark 
ened  brain.  It  is  The  Parthenon,  he  thought,  the  August 
Parthenon,  and  it  must  contain  "  Ephemera."  If  only 
Brissenden  were  here  to  see! 

He  was  turning  the  pages  of  the  magazine,  when  sud 
denly  he  stopped.  "Ephemera"  had  been  featured,  with 
gorgeous  head-piece  and  Beardsley-like  margin  decorations. 
On  one  side  of  the  head-piece  was  Brissenden's  photograph, 
on  the  other  side  was  the  photograph  of  Sir  John  Value, 
the  British  Ambassador.  A  preliminary  editorial  note 
quoted  Sir  John  Value  as  saying  that  there  were  no  poets 
in  America,  and  the  publication  of  "  Ephemera  "  was  The 
Parthenon's.  "  There,  take  that,  Sir  John  Value  !  " 
Cartwright  Bruce  was  described  as  the  greatest  critic 
in  America,  and  he  was  quoted  as  saying  that "  Ephemera  " 
was  the  greatest  poem  ever  written  in  America.  And 
finally,  the  editor's  foreword  ended  with:  "We  have  not 
yet  made  up  our  minds  entirely  as  to  the  merits  of 
"  Ephemera  "  ;  perhaps  we  shall  never  be  able  to  do  so. 
But  we  have  read  it  often,  wondering  at  the  words  and 
their  arrangement,  wondering  where  Mr.  Brissenden  got 
them,  and  how  he  could  fasten  them  together."  Then 
followed  the  poem. 

"  Pretty  good  thing  you  died,  Briss,  old  man,"  Martin 
murmured,  letting  the  magazine  slip  between  his  knees  to 
the  floor. 

The  cheapness  and  vulgarity  of  it  was  nauseating,  and 
Martin  noted  apathetically  that  he  was  not  nauseated 


346  MARTIN  EDEN 

very  much.  He  wished  he  could  get  angry,  but  did  not 
have  energy  enough  to  try.  He  was  too  numb.  His  blood 
was  too  congealed  to  accelerate  to  the  swift  tidal  flow  of 
indignation.  After  all,  what  did  it  matter  ?  It  was  on  a 
par  with  all  the  rest  that  Brissenden  had  condemned  in 
bourgeois  society. 

"  Poor  Briss,"  Martin  communed ;  "  he  would  never 
have  forgiven  me." 

Rousing  himself  with  an  effort,  he  possessed  himself  of 
a  box  which  had  once  contained  type-writer  paper.  Going 
through  its  contents,  he  drew  forth  eleven  poems  which 
his  friend  had  written.  These  he  tore  lengthwise  and 
crosswise  and  dropped  into  the  waste  basket.  He  did  it 
languidly,  and,  when  he  had  finished,  sat  on  the  edge  of 
the  bed  staring  blankly  before  him. 

How  long  he  sat  there  he  did  not  know,  until,  suddenly* 
across  his  sightless  vision  he  saw  form  a  long  horizontal 
line  of  white.  It  was  curious.  But  as  he  watched  it  grow 
in  definiteness  he  saw  that  it  was  a  coral  reef  smoking  in 
the  white  Pacific  surges.  Next,  in  the  line  of  breaker^ 
he  made  out  a  small  canoe,  an  outrigger  canoe.  In  tbf 
stern  he  saw  a  young  bronzed  god  in  scarlet  hip-clot]f 
dipping  a  flashing  paddle.  He  recognized  him.  He  was 
Moti,  the  youngest  son  of  Tati,  the  chief,  and  this  was 
Tahiti,  and  beyond  that  smoking  reef  lay  the  sweet  land 
of  Papara  and  the  chief's  grass  house  by  the  river's  mouth. 
It  was  the  end  of  the  day,  and  Moti  was  coming  home 
from  the  fishing.  He  was  waiting  for  the  rush  of  a  big 
breaker  whereon  to  jump  the  reef.  Then  he  saw  himself, 
sitting  forward  in  the  canoe  as  he  had  often  sat  in  the 
past,  dipping  a  paddle  that  waited  Moti's  word  to  dig  in 
like  mad  when  the  turquoise  wall  of  the  great  breaker  rose 
behind  them.  Next,  he  was  no  longer  an  onlooker  but 
was  himself  in  the  canoe,  Moti  was  crying  out,  they  were 
both  thrusting  hard  with  their  paddles,  racing  on  the 
steep  face  of  the  flying  turquoise.  Under  the  bow  the 
water  was  hissing  as  from  a  steam  jet,  the  air  was  filled 
with  driven  spray,  there  was  a  rush  and  rumble  and  long- 
echoing  roar,  and  the  canoe  floated  on  the  placid  water  of 


MARTIN  EDEN  347 

the  lagoon.  Moti  laughed  and  shook  the  salt  water  from 
his  eyes,  and  together  they  paddled  in  to  the  pounded- 
coral  beach  where  Tati's  grass  walls  through  the  cocoanut- 
palms  showed  golden  in  the  setting  sun. 

The  picture  faded,  and  before  his  eyes  stretched  the 
disorder  of  his  squalid  room.  He  strove  in  vain  to  see 
Tahiti  again.  He  knew  there  was  singing  among  the 
trees  and  that  the  maidens  were  dancing  in  the  moon 
light,  but  he  could  not  see  them.  He  could  see  only  the 
littered  writing-table,  the  empty  space  where  the  type 
writer  had  stood,  and  the  unwashed  window-pane.  He 
closed  his  eyes  with  a  groan,  and  slept. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

HE  slept  heavily  all  night,  and  did  not  stir  until  aroused 
by  the  postman  on  his  morning  round.  Martin  felt  tired 
and  passive,  and  went  through  his  letters  aimlessly.  One 
thin  envelope,  from  a  robber  magazine,  contained  a  check 
for  twenty-two  dollars.  He  had  been  dunning  for  it  for 
a  year  and  a  half.  He  noted  its  amount  apathetically. 
The  old-time  thrill  at  receiving  a  publisher's  check  was 
gone.  Unlike  his  earlier  checks,  this  one  was  not  preg 
nant  with  promise  of  great  things  to  come.  To  him  it 
was  a  check  for  twenty-two  dollars,  that  was  all,  and  it 
would  buy  him  something  to  eat. 

Another  check  was  in  the  same  mail,  sent  from  a  New 
York  weekly  in  payment  for  some  humorous  verse  which 
had  been  accepted  months  before.  It  was  for  ten  dollars. 
An  idea  came  to  him,  which  he  calmly  considered.  He 
did  not  know  what  he  was  going  to  do,  and  he  felt  in  no 
hurry  to  do  anything.  In  the  meantime  he  must  live. 
Also  he  owed  numerous  debts.  Would  it  not  be  a  paying 
investment  to  put  stamps  on  the  huge  pile  of  manuscripts 
under  the  table  and  start  them  on  their  travels  again  ? 
One  or  two  of  them  might  be  accepted.  That  would  help 
him  to  live.  He  decided  on  the  investment,  and,  after  he 
had  cashed  the  checks  at  the  bank  down  in  Oakland,  he 
bought  ten  dollars'  worth  of  postage  stamps.  The  thought 
of  going  home  to  cook  breakfast  in  his  stuffy  little  room 
was  repulsive  to  him.  For  the  first  time  he  refused  to 
consider  his  debts.  He  knew  that  in  his  room  he  could 
manufacture  a  substantial  breakfast  at  a  cost  of  from  fif 
teen  to  twenty  cents.  But,  instead,  he  went  into  the  Forum 
Cafe  and  ordered  a  breakfast  that  cost  two  dollars.  He 
tipped  the  waiter  a  quarter,  and  spent  fifty  cents  for  a 
package  of  Egyptian  cigarettes.  It  was  the  first  time  he 

348 


MARTIN  EDEN  349 

had  smoked  since  Ruth  had  asked  him  to  stop.  But  he 
could  see  now  no  reason  why  he  should  not,  and  besides, 
he  wanted  to  smoke.  And  what  did  the  money  matter? 
For  five  cents  he  could  have  bought  a  package  of  Durham 
and  brown  papers  and  rolled  forty  cigarettes  —  but  what 
of  it  ?  Money  had  no  meaning  to  him  now  except  what  it 
would  immediately  buy.  He  was  chartless  and  rudder 
less,  and  he  had  no  port  to  make,  while  drifting  involved 
the  least  living,  and  it  was  living  that  hurt. 

The  days  slipped  along,  and  he  slept  eight  hours  regu 
larly  every  night.  Though  now,  while  waiting  for  more 
checks,  he  ate  in  the  Japanese  restaurants  where  meals 
were  served  for  ten  cents,  his  wasted  body  filled  out,  as 
did  the  hollows  in  his  cheeks.  He  no  longer  abused  him 
self  with  short  sleep,  overwork,  and  overstudy.  He 
wrote  nothing,  and  the  books  were  closed.  He  walked 
much,  out  in  the  hills,  and  loafed  long  hours  in  the  quiet 
parks.  He  had  no  friends  nor  acquaintances,  nor  did  he 
make  any.  He  had  no  inclination.  He  was  waiting  for 
some  impulse,  from  he  knew  not  where,  to  put  his  stopped 
life  into  motion  again.  In  the  meantime  his  life  remained 
run  down,  planless,  and  empty  and  idle. 

Once  he  made  a  trip  to  San  Francisco  to  look  up  the 
"real  dirt."  But  at  the  last  moment,  as  he  stepped  into  the 
upstairs  entrance,  he  recoiled  and  turned  and  fled  through 
the  swarming  ghetto.  He  was  frightened  at  the  thought 
of  hearing  philosophy  discussed,  and  he  fled  furtively,  for 
fear  that  some  one  of  the  "  real  dirt "  might  chance  along 
and  recognize  him. 

Sometimes  he  glanced  over  the  magazines  and  news 
papers  to  see  how  "  Ephemera "  was  being  maltreated. 
It  had  made  a  hit.  But  what  a  hit  !  Everybody  had 
read  it,  and  everybody  was  discussing  whether  or  not  it 
was  really  poetry.  The  local  papers  had  taken  it  up,  and 
daily  there  appeared  columns  of  learned  criticisms,  facetious 
editorials,  and  serious  letters  from  subscribers.  Helen 
Delia  Delmar  (proclaimed  with  a  flourish  of  trumpets  and 
rolling  of  tomtoms  to  be  the  greatest  woman  poet  in  the 
United  States)  denied  Brissenden  a  seat  beside  her  on 


350  MARTIN  EDEN 

Pegasus  and  wrote  voluminous  letters  to  the  public, 
proving  that  he  was  no  poet. 

The  Parthenon  came  out  in  its  next  number  patting 
itself  on  the  back  for  the  stir  it  had  made,  sneering  at 
Sir  John  Value,  and  exploiting  Brissenden's  death  with 
ruthless  commercialism.  A  newspaper  with  a  sworn 
circulation  of  half  a  million  published  an  original  and 
spontaneous  poem  by  Helen  Delia  Delmar,  in  which  she 
gibed  and  sneered  at  Brissenden.  Also,  she  was  guilty 
of  a  second  poem,  in  which  she  parodied  him. 

Martin  had  many  times  to  be  glad  that  Brissenden  was 
dead.  He  had  hated  the  crowd  so,  and  here  all  that  was 
finest  and  most  sacred  of  him  had  been  thrown  to  the 
crowd.  Daily  the  vivisection  of  Beauty  went  on.  Every 
nincompoop  in  the  land  rushed  into  free  print,  floating 
their  wizened  little  egos  into  the  public  eye  on  the  surge 
of  Brissenden's  greatness.  Quoth  one  paper  :  "  We  have 
received  a  letter  from  a  gentleman  who  wrote  a  poem  just 
like  it,  only  better,  some  time  ago."  Another  paper,  in 
deadly  seriousness,  reproving  Helen  Delia  Delmar  for  her 
parody,  said  :  "  But  unquestionably  Miss  Delmar  wrote  it 
in  a  moment  of  badinage  and  not  quite  with  the  respect 
that  one  great  poet  should  show  to  another  and  perhaps  to 
the  greatest.  However,  whether  Miss  Delmar  be  jealous 
or  not  of  the  man  who  invented  '  Ephemera,'  it  is  certain 
that  she,  like  thousands  of  others,  is  fascinated  by  his 
work,  and  that  the  day  may  come  when  she  will  try  to 
write  lines  like  his." 

Ministers  began  to  preach  sermons  against  "  Ephemera," 
and  one,  who  too  stoutly  stood  for  much  of  its  content, 
was  expelled  for  heresy.  The  great  poem  contributed 
to  the  gayety  of  the  world.  The  comic  verse- writers  and 
the  cartoonists  took  hold  of  it  with  screaming  laughter, 
and  in  the  personal  columns  of  society  weeklies  jokes  were 
perpetrated  on  it  to  the  effect  that  Charley  Frensham  told 
Archie  Jennings,  in  confidence,  that  five  lines  of 
"  Ephemera  "  would  drive  a  man  to  beat  a  cripple,  and 
that  ten  lines  would  send  him  to  the  bottom  of  the  river. 

Martin  did  not  laugh  ;  nor  did  he   grit  his   teeth  in 


MARTIN  EDEN  351 

anger.  The  effect  produced  upon  him  was  one  of  great 
sadness.  In  the  crash  of  his  whole  world,  with  love  on 
the  pinnacle,  the  crash  of  magazinedom  and  the  dear 
public  was  a  small  crash  indeed.  Brissenden  had  been 
wholly  right  in  his  judgment  of  the  magazines,  and  he, 
Martin,  had  spent  arduous  and  futile  years  in  order  to  find 
it  out  for  himself.  The  magazines  were  all  Brissenden 
had  said  they  were  and  more.  Well,  he  was  done,  he 
solaced  himself.  He  had  hitched  his  wagon  to  a  star  and 
been  landed  in  a  pestiferous  marsh.  The  visions  of  Tahiti 
—  clean,  sweet  Tahiti  —  were  coming  to  him  more  fre 
quently.  And  there  were  the  low  Paumotus,  and  the 
high  Marquesas  ;  he  saw  himself  often,  now,  on  board 
trading  schooners  or  frail  little  cutters,  slipping  out  at 
dawn  through  the  reef  at  Papeete  and  beginning  the  long 
beat  through  the  pearl-atolls  to  Nukahiva  and  the  Bay  of 
Taiohse,  where  Tamari,  he  knew,  would  kill  a  pig  in 
honor  of  his  coming,  and  where  Tamari's  flower-garlanded 
daughters  would  seize  his  hands  and  with  song  and 
laughter  garland  him  with  flowers.  The  South  Seas  were 
calling,  and  he  knew  that  sooner  or  later  he  would 
answer  the  call. 

In  the  meantime  he  drifted,  resting  and  recuperating 
after  the  long  traverse  he  had  made  through  the  realm 
of  knowledge.  When  The  Parthenon  check  of  three  hun 
dred  and  fifty  dollars  was  forwarded  to  him,  he  turned  it 
over  to  the  local  lawyer  who  had  attended  to  Brissenden's 
affairs  for  his  family.  Martin  took  a  receipt  for  the  check, 
and  at  the  same  time  gave  a  note  for  the  hundred  dollars 
Brissenden  had  let  him  have. 

The  time  was  not  long  when  Martin  ceased  patronizing 
the  Japanese  restaurants.  At  the  very  moment  when  he 
had  abandoned  the  fight,  the  tide  turned.  But  it  had 
turned  too  late.  Without  a  thrill  he  opened  a  thin  en- 
~7elope  from  The  Millennium,  scanned  the  face  of  a 
check  that  represented  three  hundred  dollars,  and  noted 
that  it  was  the  payment  on  acceptance  for  "Adventure." 
Every  debt  he  owed  in  the  world,  including  the  pawnshop 
with  its  usurious  interest,  amounted  to  less  than  a  hun- 


352  MARTIN  EDEN 

dred  dollars.  And  when  he  had  paid  everything,  and 
lifted  the  hundred-dollar  note  with  Brissenden's  lawyer, 
he  still  had  over  a  hundred  dollars  in  pocket.  He  ordered  a 
suit  of  clothes  from  the  tailor  and  ate  his  meals  in  the  best 
cafes  in  town.  He  still  slept  in  his  little  room  at  Maria's, 
but  the  sight  of  his  new  clothes  caused  the  neighborhood 
children  to  cease  from  calling  him  "  hobo  "  and  "  tramp  " 
from  the  roofs  of  woodsheds  and  over  back  fences. 

"Wiki-Wiki,"  his  Hawaiian  short  story,  was  bought 
by  Warren's  Monthly  for  two  hundred  and  fifty  dol 
lars.  The  Northern  Review  took  his  essay,  "The 
Cradle  of  Beauty,"  and  Mackintosh's  Magazine  took 
"The  Palmist"  —  the  poem  he  had  written  to  Marian. 
The  editors  and  readers  were  back  from  their  summer 
vacations,  and  manuscripts  were  being  handled  quickly. 
But  Martin  could  not  puzzle  out  what  strange  whim  ani 
mated  them  to  this  general  acceptance  of  the  things  they 
had  persistently  rejected  for  two  years.  Nothing  of  his 
had  been  published.  He  was  not  known  anywhere  out 
side  of  Oakland,  and  in  Oakland,  with  the  few  who 
thought  they  knew  him,  he  was  notorious  as  a  red-shirt 
and  a  socialist.  So  there  was  no  explaining  this  sudden 
acceptability  of  his  wares.  It  was  sheer  jugglery  of  fate. 

After  it  had  been  refused  by  a  number  of  magazines, 
he  had  taken  Brissenden's  rejected  advice  and  started 
"The  Shame  of  the  Sun"  on  the  round  of  publishers. 
After  several  refusals,  Singletree,  Darnley  &  Co.  accepted 
it,  promising  fall  publication.  When  Martin  asked  for 
an  advance  on  royalties,  they  wrote  that  such  was  not 
their  custom,  that  books  of  that  nature  rarely  paid  for 
themselves,  and  that  they  doubted  if  his  book  would  sell 
a  thousand  copies.  Martin  figured  what  the  book  would 
earn  him  on  such  a  sale.  Retailed  at  a  dollar,  on  a 
royalty  of  fifteen  per  cent,  it  would  bring  him  one  hun 
dred  and  fifty  dollars.  He  decided  that  if  he  had  it  to  do 
over  again  he  would  confine  himself  to  fiction.  "  Adven 
ture,"  one-fourth  as  long,  had  brought  him  twice  as  much 
from  The  Millennium.  That  newspaper  paragraph  he 
had  read  so  long  ago  had  been  true,  after  all.  The  first- 


MARTIN  EDEN  353 

class  magazines  did  not  pay  on  acceptance,  and  they  paid 
well.  Not  two  cents  a  word,  but  four  cents  a  word, 
had  The  Millennium  paid  him.  And,  furthermore,  they 
bought  good  stuff,  too,  for  were  they  not  buying  his? 
This  last  thought  he  accompanied  with  a  grin. 

He  wrote  to  Singletree,  Darnley  &  Co.,  offering  to  sell 
out  his  rights  in  "  The  Shame  of  the  Sun  "  for  a  hundred 
dollars,  but  they  did  not  care  to  take  the  risk.  In  the 
meantime  he  was  not  in  need  of  money,  for  several  of  his 
later  stories  had  been  accepted  and  paid  for.  He  actually 
opened  a  bank  account,  where,  without  a  debt  in  the 
world,  he  had  several  hundred  dollars  to  his  credit. 
"  Overdue,"  after  having  been  declined  by  a  number  of 
magazines,  came  to  rest  at  the  Meredith-Lowell  Company. 
Martin  remembered  the  five  dollars  Gertrude  had  given 
him,  and  his  resolve  to  return  it  to  her  a  hundred  times 
over;  so  he  wrote  for  an  advance  on  royalties  of  five  hun 
dred  dollars.  To  his  surprise  a  check  for  that  amount, 
accompanied  by  a  contract,  came  by  return  mail.  He 
cashed  the  check  into  five-dollar  gold  pieces  and  tele 
phoned  Gertrude  that  he  wanted  to  see  her. 

She  arrived  at  the  house  panting  and  short  of  breath 
from  the  haste  she  had  made.  Apprehensive  of  trouble, 
she  had  stuffed  the  few  dollars  she  possessed  into  her  hand- 
satchel;  and  so  sure  was  she  that  disaster  had  overtaken 
her  brother,  that  she  stumbled  forward,  sobbing,  into  his 
arms,  at  the  same  time  thrusting  the  satchel  mutely  at  him. 

"  I'd  have  come  myself,"  he  said.  "  But  I  didn't  want 
a  row  with  Mr.  Higginbotham,  and  that  is  what  would 
have  surely  happened." 

"  He'll  be  all  right  after  a  time,"  she  assured  him,  while 
she  wondered  what  the  trouble  was  that  Martin  was  in. 
"  But  you'd  best  get  a  job  first  an'  steady  down.  Bernard 
does  like  to  see  a  man  at  honest  work.  That  stuff  in  the 
newspapers  broke  'm  all  up.  I  never  saw  'm  so  mad 
before." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  get  a  job,"  Martin  said  with  a  smile. 
"  And  you  can  tell  him  so  from  me.  I  don't  need  a  job, 
and  there's  the  proof  of  it." 

2A 


354  MARTIN  EDEN 

He  emptied  the  hundred  gold  pieces  into  her  lap  in  a 
glinting,  tinkling  stream. 

"You  remember  that  fiver  you  gave  me  the  time  I 
didn't  have  carfare  ?  Well,  there  it  is,  with  ninety-nine 
brothers  of  different  ages  but  all  of  the  same  size." 

If  Gertrude  had  been  frightened  when  she  arrived,  she 
was  now  in  a  panic  of  fear.  Her  fear  was  such  that  it  was 
certitude.  She  was  not  suspicious.  She  was  convinced. 
She  looked  at  Martin  in  horror,  and  her  heavy  limbs  shrank 
under  the  golden  stream  as  though  it  were  burning  her. 

"  It's  yours,"  he  laughed. 

She  burst  into  tears,  and  began  to  moan,  "  My  poor  boj, 
my  poor  boy  1 " 

He  was  puzzled  for  a  moment.  Then  he  divined  the 
cause  of  her  agitation  and  handed  her  the  Meredith-Lowell 
letter  which  had  accompanied  the  check.  She  stumbled 
through  it,  pausing  now  and  again  to  wipe  her  eyes,  and 
when  she  had  finished,  said: — 

"  An'  does  it  mean  that  you  come  by  the  money  hon 
estly?" 

"More  honestly  than  if  I'd  won  it  in  a  lottery.  I 
earned  it." 

Slowly  faith  came  back  to  her,  and  she  reread  the  letter 
carefully.  It  took  him  long  to  explain  to  her  the  nature 
of  the  transaction  which  had  put  the  money  into  his  pos 
session,  and  longer  still  to  get  her  to  understand  that  the 
money  was  really  hers  and  that  he  did  not  need  it. 

"  I'll  put  it  in  the  bank  for  you,"  she  said  finally. 

"  You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  It's  yours,  to  do  with 
as  you  please,  and  if  you  won't  take  it,  I'll  give  it  to  Maria. 
She'll  know  what  to  do  with  it.  I'd  suggest,  though,  that 
you  hire  a  servant  and  take  a  good  long  rest." 

"  I'm  goin'  to  tell  Bernard  all  about  it,"  she  announced, 
when  she  was  leaving. 

Martin  win  ^d,  then  grinned. 

"  Yes,  do,"  he  said.  "  And  then,  maybe,  he'll  invite  me 
to  dinner  again." 

"Yes,  he  will  —  I'm  sure  he  will!  "  she  exclaimed  fer 
vently,  as  she  drew  him  to  her  and  kissed  and  hugged  him. 


CHAPTER  XLII 

ONE  day  Martin  became  aware  that  he  was  lonely.  He 
was  healthy  and  strong,  and  had  nothing  to  do.  The  ces 
sation  from  writing  and  studying,  the  death  of  Brissenden, 
and  the  estrangement  from  Ruth  had  made  a  big  hole  in 
his  life;  and  his  life  refused  to  be  pinned  down  to  good 
living  in  cafes  and  the  smoking  of  Egyptian  cigarettes. 
It  was  true  the  South  Seas  were  calling  to  him,  but  he  had 
a  feeling  that  the  game  was  not  yet  played  out  in  the 
United  States.  Two  books  were  soon  to  be  published,  and 
he  had  more  books  that  might  find  publication.  Money 
could  be  made  out  of  them,  and  he  would  wait  and  take  a 
sackful  of  it  into  the  South  Seas.  He  knew  a  valley  and 
a  bay  in  the  Marquesas  that  he  could  buy  for  a  thousand 
Chili  dollars.  The  valley  ran  from  the  horseshoe,  land 
locked  bay  to  the  tops  of  the  dizzy,  cloud-capped  peaks 
and  contained  perhaps  ten  thousand  acres.  It  was  filled 
with  tropical  fruits,  wild  chickens,  and  wild  pigs,  with  an 
occasional  herd  of  wild  cattle,  while  high  up  among  the 
peaks  were  herds  of  wild  goats  harried  by  packs  of  wild 
dogs.  The  whole  place  was  wild.  Not  a  human  lived  in 
it.  And  he  could  buy  it  and  the  bay  for  a  thousand  Chili 
dollars. 

The  bay,  as  he  remembered  it,  was  magnificent,  with 
water  deep  enough  to  accommodate  the  largest  vessel  afloat, 
and  so  safe  that  the  South  Pacific  Directory  recommended 
it  as  the  best  careening  place  for  ships  for  hundreds  of 
miles  around.  He  would  buy  a  schooner  —  one  of  those 
yacht-like,  coppered  crafts  that  sailed  like  witches  —  and 
go  trading  copra  and  pearling  among  the  islands.  He 
would  make  the  valley  and  the  bay  his  headquarters.  He 
would  build  a  patriarchal  grass  house  like  Tati's,  and  have 
it  and  the  valley  and  the  schooner  filled  with  dark-skinned 
servitors.  He  would  entertain  there  the  factor  of  Taiohse, 

355 


356  MARTIN  EDEN 

captains  of  wandering  traders,  and  all  the  best  of  the  South 
Pacific  riffraff.  He  would  keep  open  house  and  entertain 
like  a  prince.  And  he  would  forget  the  books  he  had 
opened  and  the  world  that  had  proved  an  illusion. 

To  do  all  this  he  must  wait  in  California  to  fill  the  sack 
with  money.  Already  it  was  beginning  to  flow  in.  If 
one  of  the  books  made  a  strike,  it  might  enable  him  to  sell 
the  whole  heap  of  manuscripts.  Also  he  could  collect  the 
stories  and  the  poems  into  books,  and  make  sure  of  the 
valley  and  the  bay  and  the  schooner.  He  would  never 
write  again.  Upon  that  he  was  resolved.  But  in  the 
meantime,  awaiting  the  publication  of  the  books,  he  must 
do  something  more  than  live  dazed  and  stupid  in  the  sort 
of  uncaring  trance  into  which  he  had  fallen. 

He  noted,  one  Sunday  morning,  that  the  Bricklayers' 
Picnic  took  place  that  day  at  Shell  Mound  Park,  and  to 
Shell  Mound  Park  he  went.  He  had  been  to  the  working- 
class  picnics  too  often  in  his  earlier  life  not  to  know  what 
they  were  like,  and  as  he  entered  the  park  he  experienced 
a  recrudescence  of  all  the  old  sensations.  After  all,  they 
were  his  kind,  these  working  people.  He  had  been  born 
among  them,  he  had  lived  among  them,  and  though  he 
had  strayed  for  a  time,  it  was  well  to  come  back  among 
them. 

"  If  it  ain't  Mart! "  he  heard  some  one  say,  and  the  next 
moment  a  hearty  hand  was  on  his  shoulder.  "  Where  you 
ben  all  the  time  ?  Off  to  sea  ?  Come  on  an'  have  a  drink." 

It  was  the  old  crowd  in  which  he  found  himself  —  the 
old  crowd,  with  here  and  there  a  gap,  and  here  and  there 
a  new  face.  The  fellows  were  not  bricklayers,  but,  as  in 
the  old  days,  they  attended  all  Sunday  picnics  for  the 
dancing,  and  the  fighting,  and  the  fun.  Martin  drank 
with  them,  and  began  to  feel  really  human  once  more.  He 
was  a  fool  to  have  ever  left  them,  he  thought ;  and  he  was 
very  certain  that  his  sum  of  happiness  would  have  been 
greater  had  he  remained  with  them  and  let  alone  the  books 
and  the  people  who  sat  in  the  high  places.  Yet  the  beer 
seemed  not  so  good  as  of  yore.  It  didn't  taste  as  it  used 
to  taste.  Brissenden  had  spoiled  him  for  steam  beer,  he 


MARTIN  EDEN  357 

concluded,  and  wondered  if,  after  all,  the  books  had  spoiled 
him  for  companionship  with  these  friends  of  his  youth. 
He  resolved  that  he  would  not  be  so  spoiled,  and  he  went 
on  to  the  dancing  pavilion.  Jimmy,  the  plumber,  he  met 
there,  in  the  company  of  a  tall,  blond  girl  who  promptly 
forsook  him  for  Martin. 

"  Gee,  it's  like  old  times,"  Jimmy  explained  to  the  gang 
that  gave  him  the  laugh  as  Martin  and  the  blonde  whirled 
away  in  a  waltz.  "  An'  I  don't  give  a  rap.  I'm  too 
damned  glad  to  see  'm  back.  Watch  'm  waltz,  eh  ?  It's 
like  silk.  Who'd  blame  any  girl  ?  " 

But  Martin  restored  the  blonde  to  Jimmy,  and  the  three 
of  them,  with  half  a  dozen  friends,  watched  the  revolving 
couples  and  laughed  and  joked  with  one  another.  Every 
body  was  glad  to  see  Martin  back.  No  book  of  his  had 
been  published ;  he  carried  no  fictitious  value  in  their  eyes. 
They  liked  him  for  himself.  He  felt  like  a  prince  returned 
from  exile,  and  his  lonely  heart  burgeoned  in  the  geniality 
in  which  it  bathed.  He  made  a  mad  day  of  it,  and  was 
at  his  best.  Also,  he  had  money  in  his  pockets,  and,  as 
in  the  old  days  when  he  returned  from  sea  with  a  pay-day, 
he  made  the  money  fly. 

Once,  on  the  dancing-floor,  he  saw  Lizzie  Connolly  go 
by  in  the  arms  of  a  young  workingman ;  and,  later,  when 
he  made  the  round  of  the  pavilion,  he  came  upon  her  sit 
ting  by  a  refreshment  table.  Surprise  and  greetings  over, 
he  led  her  away  into  the  grounds,  where  they  could  talk 
without  shouting  down  the  music.  From  the  instant  he 
spoke  to  her,  she  was  his.  He  knew  it.  She  showed  it  in 
the  proud  humility  of  her  eyes,  in  every  caressing  move 
ment  of  her  proudly  carried  body,  and  in  the  way  she 
hung  upon  his  speech.  She  was  not  the  young  girl  as  he 
had  known  her.  She  was  a  woman,  now,  and  Martin 
noted  that  her  wild,  defiant  beauty  had  improved,  losing 
none  of  its  wildness,  while  the  defiance  and  the  fire  seemed 
more  in  control.  "  A  beauty,  a  perfect  beauty,"  he  mur 
mured  admiringly  under  his  breath.  And  he  knew  she 
was  his,  that  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  say  "  Come,"  and 
she  would  go  with  him  over  the  world  wherever  he  led. 


358  MARTIN  EDEN 

Even  as  the  thought  flashed  through  his  brain  he  re 
ceived  a  heavy  blow  on  the  side  of  his  head  that  nearly 
knocked  him  down.  It  was  a  man's  fist,  directed  by  a  man 
so  angry  and  in  such  haste  that  the  fist  had  missed  the 
jaw  for  which  it  was  aimed.  Martin  turned  as  he  stag 
gered,  and  saw  the  fist  coming  at  him  in  a  wild  swing. 
Quite  as  a  matter  of  course  he  ducked,  and  the  fist  flew 
harmlessly  past,  pivoting  the  man  who  had  driven  it. 
Martin  hooked  with  his  left,  landing  on  the  pivoting  man 
with  the  weight  of  his  body  behind  the  blow.  The  man 
went  to  the  ground  sidewise,  leaped  to  his  feet,  and  made  a 
mad  rush.  Martin  saw  his  passion-distorted  face  and  won 
dered  what  could  be  the  cause  of  the  fellow's  anger.  But 
while  he  wondered,  he  shot  in  a  straight  left,  the  weight  of 
his  body  behind  the  blow.  The  man  went  over  backward 
and  fell  in  a  crumpled  heap.  Jimmy  and  others  of  the 
gang  were  running  toward  them. 

Martin  was  thrilling  all  over.  This  was  the  old  days 
with  a  vengeance,  with  their  dancing,  and  their  fighting, 
and  their  fun.  While  he  kept  a  wary  eye  on  his  antag 
onist,  he  glanced  at  Lizzie.  Usually  the  girls  screamed 
when  the  fellows  got  to  scrapping,  but  she  had  not 
screamed.  She  was  looking  on  with  bated  breath,  lean 
ing  slightly  forward,  so  keen  was  her  interest,  one  hand 
pressed  to  her  breast,  her  cheek  flushed,  and  in  her  eyes 
a  great  and  amazed  admiration. 

The  man  had  gained  his  feet  and  was  struggling  to 
escape  the  restraining  arms  that  were  laid  on  him. 

"  She  was  waitin'  for  me  to  come  back !  "  he  was  pro 
claiming  to  all  and  sundry.  "  She  was  waitin'  for  me  to 
come  back,  an'  then  that  fresh  guy  comes  buttin'  in.  Let 
go  o'  me,  I  tell  yeh.  I'm  goin'  to  fix  'm." 

"What's  eatin'  yer?"  Jimmy  was  demanding,  as  he 
helped  hold  the  young  fellow  back.  "  That  guy's  Mart 
Eden.  He's  nifty  with  his  mits,  lemme  tell  you  that,  an1 
he'll  eat  you  alive  if  you  monkey  with  'm." 

"  He  can't  steal  her  on  me  that  way,"  the  other  inter 
jected. 

"  He  licked  the  Flyin'  Dutchman,  an'  you  know  him" 


MARTIN  EDEN  359 

Jimmy  went  on  expostulating.  "An*  he  did  it  in  five 
rounds.  You  couldn't  last  a  minute  against  him.  See?" 

This  information  seemed  to  have  a  mollifying  effect,  and 
the  irate  young  man  favored  Martin  with  a  measuring  stare. 

"  He  don't  look  it,"  he  sneered ;  but  the  sneer  was  with 
out  passion. 

"That's  what  the  Flyin'  Dutchman  thought,"  Jimmy 
assured  him.  "  Come  on,  now,  let's  get  outa  this.  There's 
lots  of  other  girls.  Come  on." 

The  young  fellow  allowed  himself  to  be  led  away  toward 
the  pavilion,  and  the  gang  followed  after  him. 

"  Who  is  he  ?  "  Martin  asked  Lizzie.  "  And  what's  it  all 
about,  anyway?" 

Already  the  zest  of  combat,  which  of  old  had  been  so 
keen  and  lasting,  had  died  down,  and  he  discovered  that 
he  was  self -analytical,  too  much  so  to  live,  single  heart 
and  single  hand,  so  primitive  an  existence. 

Lizzie  tossed  her  head. 

"  Oh,  he's  nobody,"  she  said.  "  He's  just  ben  keepin' 
company  with  me. 

"I  had  to,  you  see,"  she  explained  after  a  pause.  "I 
was  gettin'  pretty  lonesome.  But  I  never  forgot."  Her 
voice  sank  lower,  and  she  looked  straight  before  her.  "  I'd 
throw  'm  down  for  you  any  time." 

Martin,  looking  at  her  averted  face,  knowing  that  all 
he  had  to  do  was  to  reach  out  his  hand  and  pluck  her,  fell 
to  pondering  whether,  after  all,  there  was  any  real  worth  in 
refined,  grammatical  English,  and,  so,  forgot  to  reply  to  her. 

"  You  put  it  all  over  him,"  she  said  tentatively,  with  a 
laugh. 

"  He's  e;  husky  young  fellow,  though,"  he  admitted 
generously.  "  If  they  hadn't  taken  him  away,  he  might 
have  given  me  my  hands  full." 

"  Who  was  that  lady  friend  I  seen  you  with  that  night  ?  " 
she  asked  abruptly. 

"  Oh,  just  a  lady  friend,"  was  his  answer. 

"It  was  a  long  time  ago,"  she  murmured  contemplatively. 
**  It  seems  like  a  thousand  years." 

But  Martin  went  no  further  into  the  matter.     He  led 


360  MARTIN  EDEN 

the  conversation  off  into  other  channels.  They  had  lunch 
in  the  restaurant,  where  he  ordered  wine  and  expensive 
delicacies  and  afterward  he  danced  with  her  and  with 
no  one  but  her,  till  she  was  tired.  He  was  a  good  dancer, 
and  she  whirled  around  and  around  with  him  in  a  heaven 
of  delight,  her  head  against  his  shoulder,  wishing  that  it 
could  last  forever.  Later  in  the  afternoon  they  strayed 
off  among  the  trees,  where,  in  the  good  old  fashion,  she 
sat  down  while  he  sprawled  on  his  back,  his  head  in  her 
lap.  He  lay  and  dozed,  while  she  fondled  his  hair,  looked 
down  on  his  closed  eyes,  and  loved  him  without  reserve. 
Looking  up  suddenly,  he  read  the  tender  advertisement  in 
her  face.  Her  eyes  fluttered  down,  then  they  opened  and 
looked  into  his  with  soft  defiance. 

"  I've  kept  straight  all  these  years,"  she  said,  her  voice 
so  low  that  it  was  almost  a  whisper. 

In  his  heart  Martin  knew  that  it  was  the  miraculous  truth. 
And  at  his  heart  pleaded  a  great  temptation.  It  was  in 
his  power  to  make  her  happy.  Denied  happiness  himself, 
why  should  he  deny  happiness  to  her?  He  could  marry 
her  and  take  her  down  with  him  to  dwell  in  the  grass- 
walled  castle  in  the  Marquesas.  The  desire  to  do  it  was 
strong,  but  stronger  still  was  the  imperative  command  of 
his  nature  not  to  do  it.  In  spite  of  himself  he  was  still 
faithful  to  Love.  The  old  days  of  license  and  easy  living 
were  gone.  He  could  not  bring  them  back,  nor  could  he 
go  back  to  them.  He  was  changed  — how  changed  he  had 
not  realized  until  now. 

"  I  am  not  a  marrying  man,  Lizzie,"  he  said  lightly. 

The  hand  caressing  his  hair  paused  perceptibly,  then 
went  on  with  the  same  gentle  stroke.  He  noticed  her  face 
harden,  but  it  was  with  the  hardness  of  resolution,  for  still 
the  soft  color  was  in  her  cheeks  and  she  was  all  glowing 
and  melting. 

"  I  did  not  mean  that  —  "  she  began,  then  faltered.  "  Or 
anyway  I  don't  care. 

"  I  don't  care,"  she  repeated.  "  I'm  proud  to  be  your 
friend.  I'd  do  anything  for  you.  I'm  made  that  way,  I 
guess." 


MARTIN  EDEN  361 

Martin  sat  up.  He  took  her  hand  in  his.  He  did  it 
deliberately,  with  warmth  but  without  passion;  and  such 
warmth  chilled  her. 

"  Don't  let's  talk  about  it,"  she  said. 

"  You  are  a  great  and  noble  woman,"  he  said.  "  And 
it  is  I  who  should  be  proud  to  know  you.  And  I  am, 
I  am.  You  are  a  ray  of  light  to  me  in  a  very  dark 
world,  and  I've  got  to  be  straight  with  you,  just  as  straight 
as  you  have  been." 

"  I  don't  care  whether  you're  straight  with  me  or  not. 
You  could  do  anything  with  me.  You  could  throw  me 
in  the  dirt  an'  walk  on  me.  An'  you're  the  only  man  in 
the  world  that  can,"  she  added  with  a  defiant  flash. 
"  I  ain't  taken  care  of  myself  ever  since  I  was  a  kid  for 
nothin'." 

"  And  it's  just  because  of  that  that  I'm  not  going  to," 
he  said  gently.  "  You  are  so  big  and  generous  that  you 
challenge  me  to  equal  generousness.  I'm  not  marrying, 
and  I'm  not  —  well,  loving  without  marrying,  though  I've 
done  my  share  of  that  in  the  past.  I'm  sorry  I  came  here 
to-day  and  met  you.  But  it  can't  be  helped  now,  and  I 
never  expected  it  would  turn  out  this  way. 

"  But  look  here,  Lizzie.  I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  how 
much  I  like  you.  I  do  more  than  like  you.  I  admire 
and  respect  you.  You  are  magnificent,  and  you  are 
magnificently  good.  But  what's  the  use  of  words?  Yet 
there's  something  I'd  like  to  do.  You've  had  a  hard  life; 
let  me  make  it  easy  for  you."  (A  joyous  light  welled 
into  her  eyes,  then  faded  out  again.)  "  I'm  pretty  sure  of 
getting  hold  of  some  money  soon — lots  of  it." 

In  that  moment  he  abandoned  the  idea  of  the  valley 
and  the  bay,  the  grass-walled  castle  and  the  trim,  white 
schooner.  After  all,  what  did  it  matter?  He  could  go 
away,  as  he  had  done  so  often,  before  the  mast,  on  any 
ship  bound  anywhere. 

"  I'd  like  to  turn  it  over  to  you.  There  must  be  some 
thing  you  want  —  to  go  to  school  or  business  college. 
You  might  like  to  study  and  be  a  stenographer.  I  could 
fix  it  for  you.  Or  maybe  your  father  and  mother  are 


362  MARTIN  EDEN 

living  —  I  could  set  them  up  in  a  grocery  store  or  some 
thing.  Anything  you  want,  just  name  it,  and  I  can  fir 
it  for  you." 

She  made  no  reply,  but  sat,  gazing  straight  before  her, 
dry-eyed  and  motionless,  but  with  an  ache  in  the  throat 
which  Martin  divined  so  strongly  that  it  made  his  own 
throat  ache.  He  regretted  that  he  had  spoken.  It  seemed 
so  tawdry  what  he  had  offered  her  —  mere  money  — 
compared  with  what  she  offered  him.  He  offered  her  an 
extraneous  thing  with  which  he  could  part  without  a 
pang,  while  she  offered  him  herself,  along  with  disgrace 
and  shame,  and  sin,  and  all  her  hopes  of  heaven. 

"Don't  let's  talk  about  it,"  she  said  with  a  catch  in 
her  voice  that  she  changed  to  a  cough.  She  stood  up. 
"Come  on,  let's  go  home.  I'm  all  tired  out." 

The  day  was  done,  and  the  merrymakers  had  nearly 
all  departed.  But  as  Martin  and  Lizzie  emerged  from 
the  trees  they  found  the  gang  waiting  for  them.  Martin 
knew  immediately  the  meaning  of  it.  Trouble  was  brew 
ing.  The  gang  was  his  body-guard.  They  passed  out 
through  the  gates  of  the  park  with,  straggling  in  the  rear, 
a  second  gang,  the  friends  that  Lizzie's  young  man  had 
collected  to  avenge  the  loss  of  his  lady.  Several  con 
stables  and  special  police  officers,  anticipating  trouble, 
trailed  along  to  prevent  it,  and  herded  the  two  gangs 
separately  aboard  the  train  for  San  Francisco.  Martin 
told  Jimmy  that  he  would  get  off  at  Sixteenth  Street 
Station  and  catch  the  electric  car  into  Oakland.  Lizzie 
was  very  quiet  and  without  interest  in  what  was  impend 
ing.  The  train  pulled  in  to  Sixteenth  Street  Station,  and 
the  waiting  electric  car  could  be  seen,  the  conductor  of 
which  was  impatiently  clanging  the  gong. 

"  There  she  is,"  Jimmy  counselled.  "  Make  a  run  for 
it,  an'  we'll  hold  'em  back.  Now  you  go  !  Hit  her  up !  " 

The  hostile  gang  was  temporarily  disconcerted  by  the 
manoeuvre,  then  it  dashed  from  the  train  in  pursuit.  The 
staid  and  sober  Oakland  folk  who  sat  upon  the  car  scarcely 
noted  the  young  fellow  and  the  girl  who  ran  for  it  and 
found  a  seat  in  front  on  the  outside.  They  did  not 


MARTIN  EDEN  363 

connect  the  couple  with  Jimmy,  who  sprang  on  the  steps, 
crying  to  the  motorman :  — 

"  Slam  on  the  juice,  old  man,  and  beat  it  outa  here ! " 

The  next  moment  Jimmy  whirled  about,  and  the  pas 
sengers  saw  him  land  his  fist  on  the  face  of  a  running 
man  who  was  trying  to  board  the  car.  But  fists  were  land 
ing  on  faces  the  whole  length  of  the  car.  Thus,  Jimmy 
and  his  gang,  strung  out  on  the  long,  lower  steps,  met 
the  attacking  gang.  The  car  started  with  a  great  clang 
ing  of  its  gong,  and,  as  Jimmy's  gang  drove  off  the  last 
assailants,  they,  too,  jumped  off  to  finish  the  job.  The  car 
dashed  on,  leaving  the  flurry  of  combat  far  behind,  and 
its  dunifounded  passengers  never  dreamed  that  the  quiet 
young  man  and  the  pretty  working-girl  sitting  in  the 
corner  on  the  outside  seat  had  been  the  cause  of  the 
row. 

Martin  had  enjoyed  the  fight,  with  a  recrudescence  of  the 
old  fighting  thrills.  But  they  quickly  died  away,  and 
he  was  oppressed  by  a  great  sadness.  He  felt  very  old  — 
centuries  older  than  those  careless,  care-free  young  com 
panions  of  his  others  days.  He  had  travelled  far,  too  far 
to  go  back.  Their  mode  of  life,  which  had  once  been 
his,  was  now  distasteful  to  him.  He  was  disappointed 
in  it  all.  He  had  developed  into  an  alien.  As  the  steam 
beer  had  tasted  raw,  so  their  companionship  seemed  raw 
to  him.  He  was  too  far  removed.  Too  many  thousands 
of  opened  books  yawned  between  them  and  him.  He  had 
exiled  himself.  He  had  travelled  in  the  vast  realm  of  in 
tellect  until  he  could  no  longer  return  home.  On  the 
other  hand,  he  was  human,  and  his  gregarious  need  for 
companionship  remained  unsatisfied.  He  had  found  no 
new  home.  As  the  gang  could  not  understand  him,  as 
his  own  family  could  not  understand  him,  as  the  bour 
geoisie  could  not  understand  him,  so  this  girl  beside  him, 
whom  he  honored  high,  could  not  understand  him  nor 
the  honor  he  paid  her.  His  sadness  was  not  untouched 
with  bitterness  as  he  thought  it  over. 

"  Make  it  up  with  him,"  he  advised  Lizzie,  at  parting,  as 
they  stood  in  front  of  the  workingman's  shack  in  which 


364  MARTIN  EDEN 

she  lived,  near  Sixth  and  Market.  He  referred  to  the 
young  fellow  whose  place  he  had  usurped  that  day. 

"  I  can't  —  now,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  go  on,"  he  said  jovially.  "  All  you  have  to  do  is 
whistle  and  he'll  come  running." 

"  I  didn't  mean  that,"  she  said  simply. 

And  he  knew  what  she  had  meant. 

She  leaned  toward  him  as  he  was  about  to  say  good 
night.  But  she  leaned  not  imperatively,  not  seductively, 
but  wistfully  and  humbly.  He  was  touched  to  the  heart. 
His  large  tolerance  rose  up  in  him.  He  put  his  arms 
around  her,  and  kissed  her,  and  knew  that  upon  his  own  lips 
rested  as  true  a  kiss  as  man  ever  received. 

"  My  God! "  she  sobbed.  "  I  could  die  for  you.  I  could 
die  for  you." 

She  tore  herself  from  him  suddenly  and  ran  up  the  steps. 
He  felt  a  quick  moisture  in  his  eyes. 

"  Martin  Eden,"  he  communed.  "  You're  not  a  brute, 
and  you're  a  damn  poor  Nietzscheman.  You'd  marry  her  if 
you  could  and  fill  her  quivering  heart  full  with  happiness. 
But  you  can't,  you  can't  And  it's  a  damn  shame. 

"4A  poor  old  tramp  explains  his  poor  old  ulcers,'"  he 
muttered,  remembering  his  Henly.  " '  Life  is,  I  think,  a 
blunder  and  a  shame.'  It  is — a  blunder  and  a  shame." 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

"  THE  Shame  of  the  Sun  "was  published  in  October.  As 
Martin  cut  the  cords  of  the  express  package  and  the  half- 
dozen  complimentary  copies  from  the  publishers  spilled 
out  on  the  table,  a  heavy  sadness  fell  upon  him.  He 
thought  of  the  wild  delight  that  would  have  been  his 
had  this  happened  a  few  short  months  before,  and  he  con 
trasted  that  delight  that  should  have  been  with  his  present 
uncaring  coldness.  His  book,  his  first  book,  and  his  pulse 
had  not  gone  up  a  fraction  of  a  beat,  and  he  was  only  sad. 
It  meant  little  to  him  now.  The  most  it  meant  was  that  it 
might  bring  some  money,  and  little  enough  did  he  care  for 
money. 

He  carried  a  copy  out  into  the  kitchen  and  presented  it 
to  Maria. 

"  I  did  it,"  he  explained,  in  order  to  clear  up  her  be 
wilderment.  "  I  wrote  it  in  the  room  there,  and  I  guess 
some  few  quarts  of  your  vegetable  soup  went  into  the 
making  of  it.  Keep  it.  It's  yours.  Just  to  remember 
me  by,  you  know." 

He  was  not  bragging,  not  showing  off.  His  sole  motive 
was  to  make  her  happy,  to  make  her  proud  of  him,  to  jus 
tify  her  long  faith  in  him.  She  put  the  book  in  the  front 
room  on  top  of  the  family  Bible.  A  sacred  thing  was  this 
book  her  lodger  had  made,  a  fetich  of  friendship.  It 
softened  the  blow  of  his  having  been  a  laundryman,  and 
though  she  could  not  understand  a  line  of  it,  she  knew 
that  every  line  of  it  was  great.  She  was  a  simple,  practi 
cal,  hard-working  woman,  but  she  possessed  faith  in  large 
endowment. 

Just  as  emotionlessly  as  he  had  received  "  The  Shame  of 
the  Sun  "  did  he  read  the  reviews  of  it  that  came  in  weekly 

365 


366  MARTIN  EDEN 

from  the  clipping  bureau.  The  book  was  making  a  hit, 
that  was  evident.  It  meant  more  gold  in  the  money  sack. 
He  could  fix  up  Lizzie,  redeem  all  his  promises,  and  still 
have  enough  left  to  build  his  grass-walled  castle. 

Singletree,  Darnley  &  Co.  had  cautiously  brought  out 
an  edition  of  fifteen  hundred  copies,  but  the  first  reviews 
had  started  a  second  edition  of  twice  the  size  through  the 
presses;  and  ere  this  was  delivered  a  third  edition  of 
five  thousand  had  been  ordered.  A  London  firm  made 
arrangements  by  cable  for  an  English  edition,  and  hot 
footed  upon  this  came  the  news  of  French,  German,  and 
Scandinavian  translations  in  progress.  The  attack  upon  the 
Maeterlinck  school  could  not  have  been  made  at  a  more 
opportune  moment.  A  fierce  controversy  was  precipitated. 
Saleeby  and  Haeckel  indorsed  and  defended  "  The  Shame 
of  the  Sun,"  for  once  finding  themselves  on  the  same  side 
of  a  question.  Crookes  and  Wallace  ranged  up  on  the  op 
posing  side,  while  Sir  Oliver  Lodge  attempted  to  formulate 
a  compromise  that  would  jibe  with  his  particular  cosmic 
theories.  Maeterlinck's  followers  rallied  around  the  stand 
ard  of  mysticism.  Chesterton  set  the  whole  world 
laughing  with  a  series  of  alleged  non-partisan  essays  on  the 
subject,  and  the  whole  affair,  controversy  and  controver 
sialists,  was  well-nigh  swept  into  the  pit  by  a  thundering 
broadside  from  George  Bernard  Shaw.  Needless  to  say 
the  arena  was  crowded  with  hosts  of  lesser  lights,  and  the 
dust  and  sweat  and  din  became  terrific. 

"  It  is  a  most  marvellous  happening,"  Singletree,  Darn- 
ley  &  Co.  wrote  Martin,  "a  critical  philosophic  essay 
selling  like  a  novel.  You  could  not  have  chosen  your 
subject  better,  and  all  contributory  factors  have  been  un- 
warrantedly  propitious.  We  need  scarcely  to  assure  you 
that  we  are  making  hay  while  the  sun  shines.  Over 
forty  thousand  copies  have  already  been  sold  in  the  United 
States  and  Canada,  and  a  new  edition  of  twenty  thousand 
is  on  the  presses.  We  are  overworked,  trying  to  supply 
the  demand.  Nevertheless  we  have  helped  to  create  that 
demand.  We  have  already  spent  five  thousand  dollars  in 
advertising.  The  book  is  bound  to  be  a  record-breaker. 


MARTIN  EDEN  367 

"  Please  find  herewith  a  contract  in  duplicate  for  your 
next  book  which  we  have  taken  the  liberty  of  forwarding 
to  you.  You  will  please  note  that  we  have  increased 
your  royalties  to  twenty  per  cent,  which  is  about  as  high 
as  a  conservative  publishing  house  dares  go.  If  our  offer 
is  agreeable  to  you,  please  fill  in  the  proper  blank  space 
with  the  title  of  your  book.  We  make  no  stipulations 
concerning  its  nature.  Any  book  on  any  subject.  If 
you  have  one  already  written,  so  much  the  better.  Now 
is  the  time  to  strike.  The  iron  could  not  be  hotter. 

"  On  receipt  of  signed  contract  we  shall  be  pleased  to 
make  you  an  advance  on  royalties  of  five  thousand  dollars. 
You  see,  we  have  faith  in  you,  and  we  are  going  in  on 
this  thing  big.  We  should  like,  also,  to  discuss  with  you 
the  drawing  up  of  a  contract  for  a  term  of  years,  say  ten, 
during  which  we  shall  have  the  exclusive  right  of  pub 
lishing  in  book-form  all  that  you  produce.  But  more 
of  this  anon." 

Martin  laid  down  the  letter  and  worked  a  problem  in 
mental  arithmetic,  finding  the  product  of  fifteen  cents 
times  sixty  thousand  to  be  nine  thousand  dollars.  He 
signed  the  new  contract,  inserting  *  'The  Smoke  of  Joy  " 
in  the  blank  space,  and  mailed  it  back  to  the  publishers 
along  with  the  twenty  .storiettes  he  had  written  in  the 
days  before  he  discovered  the  formula  for  the  newspaper 
storiette.  And  promptly  as  the  United  States  mail  could 
deliver  and  return,  came  Singletree,  Darnley  &  Co.'s 
check  for  five  thousand  dollars. 

"  I  want  you  to  come  down  town  with  me,  Maria,  this 
afternoon  about  two  o'clock,"  Martin  said,  the  morning 
the  check  arrived.  "  Or,  better,  meet  me  at  Fourteenth 
and  Broadway  at  two  o'clock.  I'll  be  looking  out  for 
you." 

At  the  appointed  time  she  was  there  ;  but  shoes  was  the 
only  clew  to  the  mystery  her  mind  had  been  capable  of 
evolving,  and  she  suffered  a  distinct  shock  of  disappoint 
ment  when  Martin  walked  her  right  by  a  shoe-store  and 
dived  into  a  real  estate  office.  What  happened  thereupon 
resided  forever  after  in  her  memory  as  a  dream.  Fine 


368  MARTIN  EDEN 

gentlemen  smiled  at  her  benevolently  as  they  talked  with 
Martin  and  one  another ;  a  type-writer  clicked  ;  signatures 
were  affixed  to  an  imposing  document ;  her  own  landlord 
was  there,  too,  and  affixed  his  signature  ;  and  when  all  was 
over  and  she  was  outside  on  the  sidewalk,  her  landlord 
spoke  to  her,  saying,  "Well,  Maria,  you  won't  have  to 
pay  me  no  seven  dollars  and  a  half  this  month." 

Maria  was  too  stunned  for  speech. 

"  Or  next  month,  or  the  next,  or  the  next,"  her  landlord 
said. 

She  thanked  him  incoherently,  as  if  for  a  favor.  And 
it  was  not  until  she  had  returned  home  to  North  Oakland 
and  conferred  with  her  own  kind,  and  had  the  Portuguese 
grocer  investigate,  that  she  really  knew  that  she  was  the 
owner  of  the  little  house  in  which  she  had  lived  and  for 
which  she  had  paid  rent  so  long. 

"  Why  don't  you  trade  with  me  no  more  ?  "  the  Portu 
guese  grocer  asked  Martin  that  evening,  stepping  out  to 
hail  him  when  he  got  off  the  car  ;  and  Martin  explained 
that  he  wasn't  doing  his  own  cooking  any  more,  and  then 
went  in  and  had  a  drink  of  wine  on  the  house.  He  noted 
it  was  the  best  wine  the  grocer  had  in  stock. 

"  Maria,"  Martin  announced  that  night,  "  I'm  going  to 
leave  you.  And  your're  going  to  leave  here  yourself  soon. 
Then  you  can  rent  the  house  and  be  a  landlord  yourself. 
You've  a  brother  in  San  Leandro  or  Haywards,  and  he's 
in  the  milk  business.  I  want  you  to  send  all  your  wash 
ing  back  unwashed  —  understand?  —  unwashed,  and  to 
go  out  to  San  Leandro  to-morrow,  or  Haywards,  or 
wherever  it  is,  and  see  that  brother  of  yours.  Tell 
him  to  come  to  see  me.  I'll  be  stopping  at  the  Metropole 
down  in  Oakland.  He'll  know  a  good  milk-ranch  when 
he  sees  one." 

And  so  it  was  that  Maria  became  a  landlord  and  the 
sole  owner  of  a  dairy,  with  two  hired  men  to  do  the  work 
for  her  and  a  bank  account  that  steadily  increased  despite 
the  fact  that  her  whole  brood  wore  shoes  and  went  to 
school.  Few  persons  ever  meet  the  fairy  princes  they 
dream  about;  but  Maria,  who  worked  hard  and  whose 


MARTIN  EDEN  369 

head  was  hard,  never  dreaming  about  fairy  princes,  enter 
tained  hers  in  the  guise  of  an  ex-laundryman. 

In  the  meantime  the  world  had  begun  to  ask  :  "  Who 
is  this  Martin  Eden  ?  "  He  had  declined  to  give  any  bio 
graphical  data  to  his  publishers,  but  the  newspapers  were 
not  to  be  denied.  Oakland  was  his  own  town,  and  the 
reporters  nosed  out  scores  of  individuals  who  could  supply 
information.  All  that  he  was  and  was  not,  all  that  he 
had  done  and  most  of  what  he  had  not  done,  was  spread 
out  for  the  delectation  of  the  public,  accompanied  by 
snapshots  and  photographs  —  the  latter  procured  from 
the  local  photographer  who  had  once  taken  Martin's 
picture  and  who  promptly  copyrighted  it  and  put  it  on  the 
market.  At  first,  so  great  was  his  disgust  with  the 
magazines  and  all  bourgeois  society,  Martin  fought 
against  publicity;  but  in  the  end,  because  it  was  easier 
than  not  to,  he  surrendered.  He  found  that  he  could  not 
refuse  himself  to  the  special  writers  who  travelled  long 
distances  to  see  him.  Then  again,  each  day  was  so  many 
hours  long,  and,  since  he  no  longer  was  occupied  with 
writing  and  studying,  those  hours  had  to  be  occupied 
somehow;  so  he  yielded  to  what  was  to  him  a  whim,  per 
mitted  interviews,  gave  his  opinions  on  literature  and 
philosophy,  and  even  accepted  invitations  of  the  bour 
geoisie.  He  had  settled  down  into  a  strange  and  com 
fortable  state  of  mind.  He  no  longer  cared.  He  forgave 
everybody,  even  the  cub  reporter  who  had  painted  him 
red  and  to  whom  he  now  granted  a  full  page  with 
specially  posed  photographs. 

He  saw  Lizzie  occasionally,  and  it  was  patent  that  she 
regretted  the  greatness  that  had  come  to  him.  It  widened 
the  space  between  them.  Perhaps  it  was  with  the  hope 
of  narrowing  it  that  she  yielded  to  his  persuasions  to  go 
to  night  school  and  business  college  and  to  have  herself 
gowned  by  a  wonderful  dressmaker  who  charged  out 
rageous  prices.  She  improved  visibly  from  day  to  day, 
until  Martin  wondered  if  he  was  doing  right,  for  he  knew 
that  all  her  compliance  and  endeavor  was  for  his  sake. 
She  was  trying  to  make  herself  of  worth  in  his  eyes  —  of 

2B 


370  MARTIN  EDEN 

the  sort  of  worth  he  seemed  to  value.  Yet  he  gave  her 
no  hope,  treating  her  in  brotherly  fashion  and  rarely  see 
ing  her. 

"  Overdue  "  was  rushed  upon  the  market  by  the  Mere 
dith-Lowell  Company  in  the  height  of  his  popularity,  and 
being  fiction,  in  point  of  sales  it  made  even  a  bigger  strike 
than  "  The  Shame  of  the  Sun."  Week  after  week  his 
was  the  credit  of  the  unprecedented  performance  of  hav 
ing  two  books  at  the  head  of  the  list  of  best-sellers.  Not 
only  did  the  story  take  with  the  fiction-readers,  but  those 
who  read  "The  Shame  of  the  Sun"  with  avidity  were 
likewise  attracted  to  the  sea-story  by  the  cosmic  grasp  of 
mastery  with  which  he  had  handled  it.  First,  he  had  at 
tacked  the  literature  of  mysticism,  and  had  done  it  exceed 
ing  well;  and,  next,  he  had  successfully  supplied  the  very 
literature  he  had  exposited,  thus  proving  himself  to  be 
that  rare  genius,  a  critic  and  a  creator  in  one. 

Money  poured  in  on  him,  fame  poured  in  on  him ;  he 
flashed,  comet-like,  through  the  world  of  literature,  and  he 
was  more  amused  than  interested  by  the  stir  he  was  mak 
ing.  One  thing  was  puzzling  him,  a  little  thing  that 
would  have  puzzled  the  world  had  it  known.  But  the 
world  would  have  puzzled  over  his  bepuzzlement  rather 
than  over  the  little  thing  that  to  him  loomed  gigantic. 
Judge  Blount  invited  him  to  dinner.  That  was  the  little 
thing,  or  the  beginning  of  the  little  thing,  that  was  soon 
to  become  the  big  thing.  He  had  insulted  Judge  Blount, 
treated  him  abominably,  and  Judge  Blount,  meeting  him 
on  the  street,  invited  him  to  dinner.  Martin  bethought 
himself  of  the  numerous  occasions  on  which  he  had  met 
Judge  Blount  at  the  Morses'  and  when  Judge  Blount  had 
not  invited  him  to  dinner.  Why  had  he  not  invited  him 
to  dinner  then  ?  he  asked  himself.  He  had  not  changed. 
He  was  the  same  Martin  Eden.  What  made  the  dif 
ference  ?  ^  The  fact  that  the  stuff  he  had  written  had 
appeared  inside  the  covers  of  books  ?  But  it  was  work 
performed.  It  was  not  something  he  had  done  since.  It 
was  achievement  accomplished  at  the  very  time  Judge 
Blount  was  sharing  this  general  view  and  sneering 


MARTIN  EDEN  371 

at  his  Spencer  and  his  intellect.  Therefore  it  was  not 
for  any  real  value,  but  for  a  purely  fictitious  value  that 
Judge  Blount  invited  him  to  dinner. 

Martin  grinned  and  accepted  the  invitation,  marvelling 
the  while  at  his  complacence.  And  at  the  dinner,  where, 
with  their  womenkind,  were  half  a  dozen  of  those  that 
sat  in  high  places,  and  where  Martin  found  himself  quite 
the  lion,  Judge  Blount,  warmly  seconded  by  Judge 
Hanwell,  urged  privately  that  Martin  should  permit  his 
name  to  be  put  up  for  the  Styx  —  the  ultra-select  club  to 
which  belonged,  not  the  mere  men  of  wealth,  but  the  men 
of  attainment.  And  Martin  declined,  and  was  more 
puzzled  than  ever. 

He  was  kept  busy  disposing  of  his  heap  of  manuscripts. 
He  was  overwhelmed  by  requests  from  editors.  It  had 
been  discovered  that  he  was  a  stylist,  with  meat  under  his 
style.  TJie  Northern  Review,  after  publishing  "  The  Cradle 
of  Beauty,"  had  written  him  for  half  a  dozen  similar 
essays,  which  would  have  been  supplied  out  of  the  heap, 
had  not  Burton's  Magazine,  in  a  speculative  mood,  offered 
him  five  hundred  dollars  each  for  five  essays.  He  wrote 
back  that  he  would  supply  the  demand,  but  at  a  thousand 
dollars  an  essay.  He  remembered  that  all  these  manu 
scripts  had  been  refused  by  the  very  magazines  that  were 
now  clamoring  for  them.  And  their  refusals  had  been 
cold-blooded,  automatic,  stereotyped.  They  had  made 
him  sweat,  and  now  he  intended  to  make  them  sweat. 
Burton's  Magazine  paid  his  price  for  five  essays,  and  the 
remaining  four,  at  the  same  rate,  were  snapped  up  by 
Mackintosh's  Monthly,  The  Northern  Review  being  too  poor 
to  stand  the  pace.  Thus  went  out  to  the  world  "  The 
High  Priests  of  Mystery,"  "  The  Wonder-Dreamers," 
"The  Yardstick  of  the  Ego,"  "Philosophy  of  Illusion," 
"  God  and  Clod,"  "  Art  and  Biology,"  "  Critics  and  Test- 
tubes,"  "Star-dust,"  and  "The  Dignity  of  Usury,"  — 
to  raise  storms  and  rumblings  and  mutterings  that  were 
many  a  day  in  dying  down. 

Editors  wrote  to  him  telling  him  to  name  his  own  terms, 
which  he  did,  but  it  was  always  for  work  performed.  He 


372  MARTIN  EDEN 

refused  resolutely  to  pledge  himself  to  any  new  thing. 
The  thought  of  again  setting  pen  to  paper  maddened  him. 
He  had  seen  Brissenden  torn  to  pieces  by  the  crowd,  and 
despite  the  fact  that  him  the  crowd  acclaimed,  he  could 
not  get  over  the  shock  nor  gather  any  respect  for  the 
crowd.  His  very  popularity  seemed  a  disgrace  and  a 
treason  to  Brissenden.  It  made  him  wince,  but  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  go  on  and  fill  the  money-bag. 

He  received  letters  from  editors  like  the  following  : 
"  About  a  year  ago  we  were  unfortunate  enough  to  re 
fuse  your  collection  of  love-poems.  We  were  greatly  im 
pressed  by  them  at  the  time,  but  certain  arrangements 
already  entered  into  prevented  our  taking  them.  If  you 
still  have  them,  and  if  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  forward 
them,  we  shall  be  glad  to  publish  the  entire  collection  on 
your  own  terms.  We  are  also  prepared  to  make  a  most 
advantageous  offer  for  bringing  them  out  in  book-form." 

Martin  recollected  his  blank- verse  tragedy,  and  sent  it 
instead.  He  read  it  over  before  mailing,  and  was  par 
ticularly  impressed  by  its  sophomoric  amateurishness 
and  general  worthlessness.  But  he  sent  it;  and  it  was 
published,  to  the  everlasting  regret  of  the  editor.  The 
public  was  indignant  and  incredulous.  It  was  too  far  a 
cry  from  Martin  Eden's  high  standard  to  that  serious 
bosh.  It  was  asserted  that  he  had  never  written  it,  that 
the  magazine  had  faked  it  very  clumsily,  or  that  Martin 
Eden  was  emulating  the  elder  Dumas  and  at  the  height 
of  success  was  hiring  his  writing  done  for  him.  But 
when  he  explained  that  the  tragedy  was  an  early  effort  of 
his  literary  childhood,  and  that  the  magazine  had  refused 
to  be  happy  unless  it  got  it,  a  great  laugh  went  up  at  the 
magazine's  expense  and  a  change  in  the  editorship  fol 
lowed.  The  tragedy  was  never  brought  out  in  book-form, 
though  Martin  pocketed  the  advance  royalties  that  had 
been  paid. 

Coleman's  Weekly  sent  Martin  a  lengthy  telegram,  cost 
ing  nearly  three  hundred  dollars,  offering  him  a  thousand 
dollars  an  article  for  twenty  articles.  He  was  to  travel 
over  the  United  States,  with  all  expenses  paid,  and  select 


MARTIN  EDEN  373 

whatever  topics  interested  him.  The  body  of  the  tele 
gram  was  devoted  to  hypothetical  topics  in  order  to  show 
him  the  freedom  of  range  that  was  to  be  his.  The  only 
restriction  placed  upon  him  was  that  he  must  confine 
himself  to  the  United  States.  Martin  sent  his  inability  to 
accept  and  his  regrets  by  wire  "  collect." 

"  Wiki-Wiki,"  published  in  Warren's  Monthly,  was  an 
instantaneous  success.  It  was  brought  out  forward  in  a 
wide-margined,  beautifully  decorated  volume  that  struck 
the  holiday  trade  and  sold  like  wildfire.  The  critics  were 
unanimous  in  the  belief  that  it  would  take  its  place  with 
those  two  classics  by  two  great  writers,  "The  Bottle 
Imp"  and  "The  Magic  Skin." 

The  public,  however,  received  the  "  Smoke  of  Joy  "  col 
lection  rather  dubiously  and  coldly.  The  audacity  and 
unconventionally  of  the  storiettes  was  a  shock  to  bourgeois 
morality  and  prejudice  ;  but  when  Paris  went  mad  over 
the  immedate  translation  that  was  made,  the  American 
and  English  reading  public  followed  suit  and  bought  so 
many  copies  that  Martin  competed  the  conservative  house 
of  Singletree,  Darnley  &  Co.  to  pay  a  flat  royalty  of 
twenty-five  per  cent  for  a  third  book,  and  thirty  per 
cent  flat  for  a  fourth.  These  two  volumes  comprised  all 
the  short  stories  he  had  written  and  which  had  received, 
or  were  receiving,  serial  publication.  "The  Ring  of 
Bells  "  and  his  horror  stories  constituted  one  collection;  the 
other  collection  was  composed  of  "Adventure,"  "The  Pot," 
*  The  Wine  of  Life,"  "  The  Whirlpool,"  "  The  Jostling 
Street,"  and  four  other  stories.  The  Lowell-Meredith 
Company  captured  the  collection  of  all  his  essays,  and  the 
Maxmillian  Company  got  his  "  Sea  Lyrics  "  and  the  "Love- 
cycle,"  the  latter  receiving  serial  publication  in  the  Ladies' 
Home  Companion  after  the  payment  of  an  extortionate  price. 

Martin  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  when  he  had  disposed  of 
the  last  manuscript.  The  grass-walled  castle  and  the  white, 
coppered  schooner  were  very  near  to  him.  Well,  at  any 
rate  he  had  discovered  Brissenden's  contention  that  noth 
ing  of  merit  found  its  way  into  the  magazines.  His  own 
success  demonstrated  that  Brissenden  had  been  wrong. 


374  MARTIN  EDEN 

And  yet,  somehow,  lie  had  a  feeling  that  Brissenden  had 
been  right,  after  all.  "The  Shame  of  the  Sun"  had  been 
the  cause  of  his  success  more  than  the  stuff  he  had  writ 
ten.  That  stuff  had  been  merely  incidental.  It  had  been 
rejected  right  and  left  by  the  magazines.  The  publica 
tion  of  "The  Shame  of  the  Sun  "had  started  a  controversy 
and  precipitated  the  landslide  in  his  favor.  Had  there 
been  no  "  Shame  of  the  Sun  "  there  would  have  been  no 
landslide,  and  had  there  been  no  miracle  in  the  go  of  "  The 
Shame  of  the  Sun  "  there  would  have  been  no  landslide. 
Singletree,  Darnley  &  Co.  attested  that  miracle.  They 
had  brought  out  a  first  edition  of  fifteen  hundred  copies 
and  been  dubious  of  selling  it.  They  were  experienced 
publishers  and  no  one  had  been  more  astounded  than  they 
at  the  success  which  had  followed.  To  them  it  had  been 
in  truth  a  miracle.  They  never  got  over  it,  and  every 
letter  they  wrote  him  reflected  their  reverent  awe  of  that 
first  mysterious  happening.  They  did  not  attempt  to  ex 
plain  it.  There  was  no  explaining  it.  It  had  happened. 
In  the  face  of  all  experience  to  the  contrary,  it  had  hap 
pened. 

So  it  was,  reasoning  thus,  that  Martin  questioned  the 
validity  of  his  popularity.  It  was  the  bourgeoisie  that 
bought  his  books  and  poured  its  gold  into  his  money-sack, 
and  from  what  little  he  knew  of  the  bourgeoisie  it  was  not 
clear  to  him  how  it  could  possibly  appreciate  or  compre 
hend  what  he  had  written.  His  intrinsic  beauty  and  power 
meant  nothing  to  the  hundreds  of  thousands  who  were  ac 
claiming  him  and  buying  his  books.  He  was  the  fad  of 
the  hour,  the  adventurer  who  had  stormed  Parnassus  while 
the  gods  nodded.  The  hundreds  of  thousands  read  him 
and  acclaimed  him  with  the  same  brute  non-understanding 
with  which  they  had  flung  themselves  on  Brissen  den's 
"Ephemera"  and  torn  it  to  pieces  —  a  wolf -rabble  that 
fawned  on  him  instead  of  fanging  him.  Fawn  or  fang,  it 
was  all  a  matter  of  chance.  One  thing  he  knew  with  ab 
solute  certitude:  "Ephemera"  was  infinitely  greater  than 
anything  he  had  done.  It  was  infinitely  greater  than  any 
thing  he  had  in  him.  It  was  a  poem  of  centuries.  Then 


MARTIN  EDEN  375 

the  tribute  the  mob  paid  him  was  a  sorry  tribute  indeed, 
for  that  same  mob  had  wallowed  "Ephemera"  into  the 
mire.  He  sighed  heavily  and  with  satisfaction.  He  was 
glad  the  last  manuscript  was  sold  and  that  he  would  soon 
be  done  with  it  all. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

MR.  MOESB  met  Martin  in  the  office  of  the  Hotel  Metro- 
pole.  Whether  he  had  happened  there  just  casually,  in 
tent  on  other  affairs,  or  whether  he  had  come  there  for  the 
direct  purpose  of  inviting  him  to  dinner,  Martin  never 
could  quite  make  up  his  mind,  though  he  inclined  toward 
the  second  hypothesis.  At  any  rate,  invited  to  dinner  he 
was  by  Mr.  Morse  —  Ruth's  father,  who  had  forbidden  him 
the  house  and  broken  off  the  engagement. 

Martin  was  not  angry.  He  was  not  even  on  his  dignity. 
He  tolerated  Mr.  Morse,  wondering  the  while  how  it  felt 
to  eat  such  humble  pie.  He  did  not  decline  the  invitation. 
Instead,  he  put  it  off  with  vagueness  and  indefiniteness 
and  inquired  after  the  family,  particularly  after  Mrs.  Morse 
and  Ruth.  He  spoke  her  name  without  hesitancy,  naturally, 
though  secretly  surprised  that  he  had  had  no  inward  quiver, 
no  old,  familiar  increase  of  pulse  and  warm  surge  of  blood. 

He  had  many  invitations  to  dinner,  some  of  which  he 
accepted.  Persons  got  themselves  introduced  to  him  in 
order  to  invite  him  to  dinner.  And  he  went  on  puzzling 
over  the  little  thing  that  was  becoming  a  great  thing. 
Bernard  Higginbotham  invited  him  to  dinner.  He  puz 
zled  the  harder.  He  remembered  the  days  of  his  desperate 
starvation  when  no  one  invited  him  to  dinner.  That  was 
the  time  he  needed  dinners,  and  went  weak  and  faint  for 
lack  of  them  and  lost  weight  from  sheer  famine.  That 
was  the  paradox  of  it.  When  he  wanted  dinners,  no  one 
gave  them  to  him,  and  now  that  he  could  buy  a  hundred 
thousand  dinners  and  was  losing  his  appetite,  dinners  were 
thrust  upon  him  right  and  left.  But  why  ?  There  was 
no  justice  in  it,  no  merit  on  his  part.  He  was  no  different. 
All  the  work  he  had  done  was  even  at  that  time  work  per 
formed.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morse  had  condemned  him  for  an 
idler  and  a  shirk  and  through  Ruth  had  urged  that  he  take 

376 


MARTIN  EDEN  377 

a  clerk's  position  in  an  office.  Furthermore,  they  had 
been  aware  of  his  work  performed.  Manuscript  after 
manuscript  of  his  had  been  turned  over  to  them  by  Ruth. 
They  had  read  them.  It  was  the  very  same  work  that 
had  put  his  name  in  all  the  papers,  and  it  was  his  name 
being  in  all  the  papers  that  led  them  to  invite  him. 

One  thing  was  certain  :  the  Morses  had  not  cared  to 
have  him  for  himself  or  for  his  work.  Therefore  they 
could  not  want  him  now  for  himself  or  for  his  work,  but 
for  the  fame  that  was  his,  because  he  was  somebody 
amongst  men,  and  —  why  not  ?  —  because  he  had  a  hun 
dred  thousand  dollars  or  so.  That  was  the  way  bourgeois 
society  valued  a  man,  and  who  was  he  to  expect  it  other 
wise  ?  But  he  was  proud.  He  disdained  such  valuation. 
He  desired  to  be  valued  for  himself,  or  for  his  work,  which, 
after  all,  was  an  expression  of  himself.  That  was  the 
way  Lizzie  valued  him.  The  work,  with  her,  did  not 
even  count.  She  valued  him,  himself.  That  was  the 
way  Jimmy,  the  plumber,  and  all  the  old  gang  valued 
him.  That  had  been  proved  often  enough  in  the  days 
when  he  ran  with  them  ;  it  had  been  proved  that  Sunday 
at  Shell  Mound  Park.  His  work  could  go  hang.  What 
they  liked,  and  were  willing  to  scrap  for,  was  just  Mart 
Eden,  one  of  the  bunch  and  a  pretty  good  guy. 

Then  there  was  Ruth.  She  had  liked  him  for  himself, 
that  was  indisputable.  And  yet,  much  as  she  had  liked  him 
she  had  liked  the  bourgeois  standard  of  valuation  more. 
She  had  opposed  his  writing,  and  principally,  it  seemed  to 
him,  because  it  did  not  earn  money.  That  had  been  her  crit 
icism  of  his  "  Love-cycle."  She,  too,  had  urged  him  to  get  a 
job.  It  was  true,  she  refined  it  to  "  position,"  but  it  meant 
the  same  thing,  and  in  his  own  mind  the  old  nomenclature 
stuck.  He  had  read  her  all  that  he  wrote  —  poems, 
stories,  essays  —  "  Wiki-Wiki,"  "  The  Shame  of  the  Sun," 
everything.  And  she  had  always  and  consistently  urged 
him  to  get  a  job,  to  go  to  work — good  God!  as  if  he 
hadn't  been  working,  robbing  sleep,  exhausting  life,  in 
order  to  be  worthy  of  her. 

So  the  little  thing  grew  bigger.     He  was  healthy  and 


S78  MARTIN  EDEN 

normal,  ate  regularly,  slept  long  hours,  and  yet  the  grow 
ing  little  thing  was  becoming  an  obsession.  Work  per 
formed.  The  phrase  haunted  his  brain.  He  sat  opposite 
Bernard  Higginbotham  at  a  heavy  Sunday  dinner  over 
Higginbotham's  Cash  Store,  and  it  was  all  he  could  do  to 
restrain  himself  from  shouting  out :  — 

"  It  was  work  performed !  And  now  you  feed  me,  when 
then  you  let  me  starve,  forbade  me  your  house,  and 
damned  me  because  I  wouldn't  get  a  job.  And  the  work 
was  already  done,  all  done.  And  now,  when  I  speak, 
you  check  the  thought  unuttered  on  your  lips  and  hang 
on  my  lips  and  pay  respectful  attention  to  whatever  I  choose 
to  say.  I  tell  you  your  party  is  rotten  and  filled  with  graft 
ers,  and  instead  of  flying  into  a  rage  you  hum  and  haw 
and  admit  there  is  a  great  deal  in  what  I  say.  And  why? 
Because  I'm  famous  ;  because  I've  a  lot  of  money.  Not 
because  I'm  Martin  Eden,  a  pretty  good  fellow  and  not 
particularly  a  fool.  I  could  tell  you  the  moon  is  made  of 
green  cheese  and  you  would  subscribe  to  the  notion,  at 
least  you  would  not  repudiate  it,  because  I've  got  dollars, 
mountains  of  them.  And  it  was  all  done  long  ago;  it 
was  work  performed,  I  tell  you,  when  you  spat  upon  me 
as  the  dirt  under  your  feet." 

But  Martin  did  not  shout  out.  The  thought  gnawed 
in  his  brain,  an  unceasing  torment,  while  he  smiled  and 
succeeded  in  being  tolerant.  As  he  grew  silent,  Bernard 
Higginbotham  got  the  reins  and  did  the  talking.  He  was 
a  success  himself,  and  proud  of  it.  He  was  self-made. 
No  one  had  helped  him.  He  owed  no  man.  He  was 
fulfilling  his  duty  as  a  citizen  and  bringing  up  a  large 
family.  And  there  was  Higginbotham's  Cash  Store,  that 
monument  of  his  own  industry  and  ability.  He  loved 
Higginbotham's  Cash  Store  as  some  men  loved  their 
wives.  He  opened  up  his  heart  to  Martin,  showed  with 
what  keenness  and  with  what  enormous  planning  he  had 
made  the  store.  And  he  had  plans  for  it,  ambitious 
plans.  The  neighborhood  was  growing  up  fast.  The 
store  was  really  too  small.  If  he  had  more  room,  he  would 
be  able  to  put  in  a  score  of  labor-saving  and  money-saving 


MARTIN  EDEN  379 

improvements.  And  he  would  do  it  yet.  He  was  straining 
every  effort  for  the  day  when  he  could  buy  the  adjoining  lot 
and  put  up  another  two-story  frame  building.  The  upstairs 
he  could  rent,  and  the  whole  ground-floor  of  both  buildings 
would  be  Higginbotham's  Cash  Store.  His  eyes  glistened 
when  he  spoke  of  the  new  sign  that  would  stretch  clear 
across  both  buildings. 

Martin  forgot  to  listen.  The  refrain  of  "  Work  per 
formed,  "  in  his  own  brain,  was  drowning  the  other's 
clatter.  The  refrain  maddened  him,  and  he  tried  to  escape 
from  it. 

"  How  much  did  you  say  it  would  cost  ?  "  he  asked 
suddenly. 

His  brother-in-law  paused  in  the  middle  of  an  expatia- 
tion  on  the  business  opportunities  of  the  neighborhood. 
He  hadn't  said  how  much  it  would  cost.  But  he  knew. 
He  had  figured  it  out  a  score  of  times. 

"  At  the  way  lumber  is  now,"  he  said,  "  four  thousand 
could  do  it." 

"  Including  the  sign  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  count  on  that.  It'd  just  have  to  come,  onc't 
the  buildin'  was  there." 

"  And  the  ground  ?  " 

"  Three  thousand  more.'* 

He  leaned  forward,  licking  his  lips,  nervously  spread 
ing  and  closing  his  fingers,  while  he  watched  Martin 
write  a  check.  When  it  was  passed  over  to  him,  he 
glanced  at  the  amount  —  seven  thousand  dollars. 

"I  —  I  can't  afford  to  pay  more  than  six  per  cent,"  he 
said  huskily. 

Martin  wanted  to  laugh,  but,  instead,  demanded  :  — 

"  How  much  would  that  be  ?  " 

"Lemme  see.  Six  per  cent  —  six  times  seven  —  four 
hundred  an'  twenty." 

"  That  would  be  thirty-five  dollars  a  month,  wouldn't 
it?" 

Higginbotham  nodded. 

"Then,  if  you've  no  objection,  well  arrange  it  this 
way."  Martin  glanced  at  Gertrude.  "  You  can  have  the 


380  MARTIN  EDEN 

principal  to  keep  for  yourself,  if  you'll  use  the  thirty-five 
dollars  a  month  for  cooking  and  washing  and  scrubbing. 
The  seven  thousand  is  yours  if  you'll  guarantee  that  Ger 
trude  does  no  more  drudgery.  Is  it  a  go  ?  " 

Mr.  Higginbotham  swallowed  hard.  That  his  wife 
should  do  no  more  housework  was  an  affront  to  his  thrifty 
soul.  The  magnificent  present  was  the  coating  of  a  pill, 
a  bitter  pill.  That  his  wife  should  not  work  I  It  gagged 
him. 

"  All  right,  then,"  Martin  said.  "  I'll  pay  the  thirty- 
five  a  month,  and  —  " 

He  reached  across  the  table  for  the  check.  But  Bernard 
Higginbotham  got  his  hand  on  it  first,  crying:  — 

"I  accept!.    I  accept!  " 

When  Martin  got  on  the  electric  car,  he  was  very  sick 
and  tired.  He  looked  up  at  the  assertive  sign. 

"  The  swine,"  he  groaned.     "  The  swine,  the  swine.  " 

When  Mackintosh's  Magazine  published  "  The  Palm 
ist,"  featuring  it  with  decorations  by  Berthier  and  with 
two  pictures  by  Wenn,  Hermann  von  Schmidt  forgot  that 
he  had  called  the  verses  obscene.  He  announced  that  his 
wife  had  inspired  the  poem,  saw  to  it  that  the  news  reached 
the  ears  of  a  reporter,  and  submitted  to  an  interview  by  a 
staff  writer  who  was  accompanied  by  a  staff  photographer 
and  a  staff  artist.  The  result  was  a  full  page  in  a  Sunday 
supplement,  filled  with  photographs  and  idealized  draw 
ings  of  Marian,  with  many  intimate  details  of  Martin 
Eden  and  his  family,  and  with  the  full  text  of  "  The 
Palmist  "in  large  type,  and  republished  by  special  per 
mission  of  Mackintosh's  Magazine.  It  caused  quite  a 
stir  in  the  neighborhood,  and  good  housewives  were  proud 
to  have  the  acquaintance  of  the  great  writer's  sister,  while 
those  who  had  not  made  haste  to  cultivate  it.  Hermann 
von  Schmidt  chuckled  in  his  little  repair  shop  and  decided 
to  order  a  new  lathe.  "  Better  than  advertising,"  he  told 
Marian,  "  and  it  costs  nothing." 

"  We'd  better  have  him  to  dinner,"  she  suggested. 

^And  to  dinner  Martin  came,  making  himself  agreeable 
with  the  fat  wholesale  butcher  and  his  fatter  wife  —  im- 


MARTIN  EDEN  381 

portant  folk,  they,  likely  to  be  of  use  to  a  rising  young 
man  like  Hermann  von  Schmidt.  No  less  a  bait,  however, 
had  been  required  to  draw  them  to  his  house  than  his  great 
brother-in-law.  Another  man  at  table  who  had  swallowed 
the  same  bait  was  the  superintendent  of  the  Pacific  Coast 
agencies  for  the  Asa  Bicycle  Company.  Him  Von  Schmidt 
desired  to  please  and  propitiate  because  from  him  could 
be  obtained  the  Oakland  agency  for  the  bicycle.  So  Her 
mann  von  Schmidt  found  it  a  goodly  asset  to  have  Martin 
for  a  brother-in-law,  but  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he  couldn't 
understand  where  it  all  came  in.  In  the  silent  watches  of 
the  night,  while  his  wife  slept,  he  had  floundered  through 
Martin's  books  and  poems,  and  decided  that  the  world  was 
a  fool  to  buy  them. 

And  in  his  heart  of  hearts  Martin  understood  the  situa 
tion  only  too  well,  as  he  leaned  back  and  gloated  at  Von 
Schmidt's  head,  in  fancy  punching  it  well-nigh  off  of 
him,  sending  blow  after  blow  home  just  right  —  the 
chuckle-headed  Dutchman  !  One  thing  he  did  like  about 
him,  however.  Poor  as  he  was,  and  determined  to  rise 
as  he  was,  he  nevertheless  hired  one  servant  to  take  the 
heavy  work  off  of  Marian's  hands.  Martin  talked  with 
the  superintendent  of  the  Asa  agencies,  and  after  dinner 
he  drew  him  aside  with  Hermann,  whom  he  backed  finan 
cially  for  the  best  bicycle  store  with  fittings  in  Oakland. 
He  went  further,  and  in  a  private  talk  with  Hermann 
told  him  to  keep  his  eyes  open  for  an  automobile  agency 
and  garage,  for  there  was  no  reason  that  he  should  not  be 
able  to  run  both  establishments  successfully. 

With  tears  in  her  eyes  and  her  arms  around  his  neck, 
Marian,  at  parting,  told  Martin  how  much  she  loved  him 
and  always  had  loved  him.  It  was  true,  there  was  a  per 
ceptible  halt  midway  in  her  assertion,  which  she  glossed 
over  with  more  tears  and  kisses  and  incoherent  stammer 
ings,  and  which  Martin  inferred  to  be  her  appeal  for  for 
giveness  for  the  time  she  had  lacked  faith  in  him  and 
insisted  on  his  getting  a  job. 

"  He  can't  never  keep  his  money,  that's  sure,"  Her 
mann  von  Schmidt  confided  to  his  wife.  "He  got  mad 


382  MARTIN  EDEN 

when  I  spoke  of  interest,  an'  he  said  damn  the  principal 
and  if  I  mentioned  it  again,  he'd  punch  my  Dutch  head  off. 
That's  what  he  said  —  my  Dutch  head.  But  he's  all  right, 
even  if  he  ain't  no  business  man.  He's  given  me  my 
chance,  an'  he's  all  right." 

Invitations  to  dinner  poured  in  on  Martin  ;  and  the 
more  they  poured,  the  more  he  puzzled.  He  sat,  the  guest 
of  honor,  at  an  Arden  Club  banquet,  with  men  of  note 
whom  he  had  heard  about  and  read  about  all  his  life ;  and 
they  told  him  how,  when  they  had  read  "  The  Ring  of 
Bells"  in  the  Transcontinental,  and  "  The  Peri  and  the 
Pearl "  in  The  Hornet,  they  had  immediately  picked  him 
for  a  winner.  My  God  I  and  I  was  hungry  and  in  rags, 
he  thought  to  himself.  Why  didn't  you  give  me  a  dinner 
then  ?  Then  was  the  time.  It  was  work  performed.  If 
you  are  feeding  me  now  for  work  performed,  why  did  you 
not  feed  me  then  when  I  needed  it  ?  Not  one  word  in  "  The 
Ring  of  Bells,"  nor  in  "The  Peri  and  the  Pearl "  has  been 
changed.  No  ;  you're  not  feeding  me  now  for  work  per 
formed.  You  are  feeding  me  because  everybody  else  is 
feeding  me  and  because  it  is  an  honor  to  feed  me.  You 
are  feeding  me  now  because  you  are  herd  animals;  because 
you  are  part  of  the  mob;  because  the  one  blind,  automatic 
thought  in  the  mob-mind  just  now  is  to  feed  me.  And 
where  does  Martin  Eden  and  the  work  Martin  Eden  per 
formed  come  in  in  all  this  ?  he  asked  himself  plaintively, 
then  arose  to  respond  cleverly  and  wittily  to  a  clever  and 
witty  toast. 

So  it  went.  Wherever  he  happened  to  be  —  at  the  Press 
Club,  at  the  Redwood  Club,  at  pink  teas  and  literary  gather 
ings  —  always  were  remembered  "  The  Ring  of  Bells  "  and 
"  The  Peri  and  the  Pearl "  when  they  were  first  published. 
And  always  was  Martin's  maddening  and  unuttered  de 
mand  :  Why  didn't  you  feed  me  then  ?  It  was  work  per 
formed.  "The  Ring  of  Bells"  and  "The  Peri  and  the 
Pearl "  are  not  changed  one  iota.  They  were  just  as 
artistic,  just  as  worth  while,  then  as  now.  But  you  are 
not  feeding  me  for  their  sake,  nor  for  the  sake  of  anything 
else  I  have  written.  You're  feeding  me  because  it  is  the 


MARTIN  EDEN  383 

style  of  feeding  just  now,  because  the  whole  mob  is  crazy 
with  the  idea  of  feeding  Martin  Eden. 

And  often,  at  such  times,  he  would  abruptly  see  slouch 
in  among  the  company  a  young  hoodlum  in  square-cut  coat 
and  under  a  stiff-rim  Stetson  hat.  It  happened  to  him  at 
the  Gallina  Society  in  Oakland  one  afternoon.  As  he  rose 
from  his  chair  and  stepped  forward  across  the  platform,  he 
saw  stalk  through  the  wide  door  at  the  rear  of  the  great 
room  the  young  hoodlum  with  the  square-cut  coat  and 
stiff-rim  hat.  Five  hundred  fashionably  gowned  women 
turned  their  heads,  so  intent  and  steadfast  was  Martin's 
gaze,  to  see  what  he  was  seeing.  But  they  saw  only  the 
empty  centre  aisle.  He  saw  the  young  tough  lurching 
down  that  aisle  and  wondered  if  he  would  remove  the  stiff- 
rim  which  never  yet  had  he  seen  him  without.  Straight 
down  the  aisle  he  came,  and  up  the  platform.  Martin 
could  have  wept  over  that  youthful  shade  of  himself,  when 
he  thought  of  all  that  lay  before  him.  Across  the  platform 
he  swaggered,  right  up  to  Martin,  and  into  the  foreground 
of  Martin's  consciousness  disappeared.  The  five  hundred 
women  applauded  softly  with  gloved  hands,  seeking  to  en 
courage  the  bashful  great  man  who  was  their  guest.  And 
Martin  shook  the  vision  from  his  brain,  smiled,  and  began 
to  speak. 

The  Superintendent  of  Schools,  good  old  man,  stopped  Mar 
tin  on  the  street  and  remembered  him,  recalling  seances  in 
his  office  when  Martin  was  expelled  from  school  for  fighting. 

"  I  read  your  *  Ring  of  Bells '  in  one  of  the  magazines 
quite  a  time  ago,"  he  said.  "  It  was  as  good  as  Poe. 
Splendid,  I  said  at  the  time,  splendid ! " 

Yes,  and  twice  in  the  months  that  followed  you  passed 
me  on  the  street  and  did  not  know  me,  Martin  almost  said 
aloud.  Each  time  I  was  hungry  and  heading  for  the 
pawnbroker.  Yet  it  was  work  performed.  You  did  not 
know  me  then.  Why  do  you  know  me  now  ? 

"  I  was  remarking  to  my  wife  only  the  other  day,"  the 
other  was  saying,  "  wouldn't  it  be  a  good  idea  to  have  you 
out  to  dinner  some  time  ?  And  she  quite  agreed  with  me. 
Yes,  she  quite  agreed  with  me." 


384  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  Dinner  ?  "  Martin  said  so  sharply  that  it  was  almost  a 
snarl. 

"Why,  yes,  yes,  dinner,  you  know — just  pot  luck  with 
us,  with  your  old  superintendent,  you  rascal,"  he  uttered 
nervously,  poking  Martin  in  an  attempt  at  jocular  fellow 
ship. 

Martin  went  down  the  street  in  a  daze.  He  stopped  at 
the  corner  and  looked  about  him  vacantly. 

"  Well,  I'll  be  damned  !  "  he  murmured  at  last.  "  The 
old  fellow  was  afraid  of  me.*' 


CHAPTER  XLV 

KBBIS  came  to  Martin  one  day  —  Kreis,  of  the  "  real 
dirt "  ;  and  Martin  turned  to  him  with  relief,  to  receive  the 
glowing  details  of  a  scheme  sufficiently  wild-catty  to  in 
terest  him  as  a  fictionist  rather  than  an  investor.  Kreis 
paused  long  enough  in  the  midst  of  his  exposition  to  tell 
him  that  in  most  of  his  "  Shame  of  the  Sun  "  he  had  been 
a  chump. 

"But  I  didn't  come  here  to  spout  philosophy,"  Kreis 
went  on.  "  What  I  want  to  know  is  whether  or  not  you 
will  put  a  thousand  dollars  in  on  this  deal  ?  " 

"No,  I'm  not  chump  enough  for  that,  at  any  rate,** 
Martin  answered.  "  But  I'll  tell  you  what  I  will  do.  You 
gave  me  the  greatest  night  of  my  life.  You  gave  me  what 
money  cannot  buy.  Now  I've  got  money,  and  it  means 
nothing  to  me.  I'd  like  to  turn  over  to  you  a  thousand 
dollars  of  what  I  don't  value  for  what  you  gave  me  that 
night  and  which  was  beyond  price.  You  need  the  money. 
I've  got  more  than  I  need.  You  want  it.  You  came  for 
it.  There's  no  use  scheming  it  out  of  me.  Take  it." 

Kreis  betrayed  no  surprise.  He  folded  the  check 
away  in  his  pocket. 

"  At  that  rate  I'd  like  the  contract  of  providing  you 
with  many  such  nights,"  he  said. 

"Too  late."  Martin  shook  his  head.  "  That  night  was 
the  one  night  for  me.  I  was  in  paradise.  It's  common 
place  with  you,  I  know.  But  it  wasn't  to  me.  I  shall 
never  live  at  such  a  pitch  again.  I'm  done  with  philos 
ophy.  I  want  never  to  hear  another  word  of  it." 

"  The  first  dollar  I  ever  made  in  my  life  out  of  my  phi 
losophy,"  Kreis  remarked,  as  he  paused  in  the  doorway. 
"And  then  the  market  broke." 

Mrs.  Morse  drove  by  Martin  on  the  street  one  day,  and 
2o  385 


386  MARTIN  EDEN 

smiled  and  nodded.  He  smiled  back  and  lifted  his  hat. 
The  episode  did  not  affect  him.  A  month  before  it  might 
have  disgusted  him,  or  made  him  curious  and  set  him  to 
speculating  about  her  state  of  consciousness  at  that  mo 
ment.  But  now  it  was  not  provocative  of  a  second  thought. 
He  forgot  about  it  the  next  moment.  He  forgot  about  it 
as  he  would  have  forgotten  the  Central  Bank  Building  or 
the  City  Hall  after  having  walked  past  them.  Yet  his 
mind  was  preternaturally  active.  His  thoughts  went  ever 
around  and  around  in  a  circle.  The  centre  of  that  circle 
was  "  work  performed  " ;  it  ate  at  his  brain  like  a  deathless 
maggot.  He  awoke  to  it  in  the  morning.  It  tormented 
his  dreams  at  night.  Every  affair  of  life  around  him  that 
penetrated  through  his  senses  immediately  related  itself  to 
"  work  performed."  He  drove  along  the  path  of  relent 
less  logic  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  nobody,  nothing. 
Mart  Eden,  the  hoodlum,  and  Mart  Eden,  the  sailor,  had 
been  real,  had  been  he;  but  Martin  Eden!  the  famous 
writer,  did  not  exist.  Martin  Eden,  the  famous  writer,  was 
a  vapor  that  had  arisen  in  the  mob-mind  and  by  the  mob- 
mind  had  been  thrust  into  the  corporeal  being  of  Mart 
Eden,  the  hoodlum  and  sailor.  But  it  couldn't  fool  him. 
He  was  not  that  sun-myth  that  the  mob  was  worshipping 
and  sacrificing  dinners  to.  He  knew  better. 

He  read  the  magazines  about  himself,  and  pored  over 
portraits  of  himself  published  therein  until  he  was  unable 
to  associate  his  identity  with  those  portraits.  He  was  the 
fellow  who  had  lived  and  thrilled  and  loved;  who  had 
been  easy-going  and  tolerant  of  the  frailties  of  life ;  who 
had  served  in  the  forecastle,  wandered  in  strange  lands,  and 
led  his  gang  in  the  old  fighting  days.  He  was  the  fellow 
who  had  been  stunned  at  first  by  the  thousands  of  books 
in  the  free  library,  and  who  had  afterward  learned  his 
way  among  them  and  mastered  them ;  he  was  the  fellow 
who  had  burned  the  midnight  oil  and  bedded  with  a  spur 
and  written  books  himself.  But  the  one  thing  he  was  not 
was  that  colossal  appetite  that  all  the  mob  was  bent  upon 
feeding. 

There  were  things,  however,  in  the  magazines  that 


MARTIN  EDEN  387 

amuses  him.  All  the  magazines  were  claiming  him. 
Warren's  Monthly  advertised  to  its  subscribers  that  it  was 
always  on  the  quest  after  new  writers,  and  that,  among 
others,  it  had  introduced  Martin  Eden  to  the  reading  pub 
lic.  The  White  Mouse  claimed  him  ;  so  did  The  Northern 
Review  and  Mackintosh's  Magazine,  until  silenced  by  The 
Globe,  which  pointed  triumphantly  to  its  files  where  the 
mangled  "  Sea  Lyrics  "  lay  buried.  Youth  and  Age,  which 
had  come  to  life  again  after  having  escaped  paying  its 
bills,  put  in  a  prior  claim,  which  nobody  but  farmers' 
children  ever  read.  The  Transcontinental  made  a  dignified 
and  convincing  statement  of  how  it  first  discovered  Mar 
tin  Eden,  which  was  warmly  disputed  by  The  Hornet,  with 
the  exhibit  of  "The  Peri  and  the  Pearl."  The  modest 
claim  of  Singletree,  Darnley  &  Co.  was  lost  in  the  din. 
Besides,  that  publishing  firm  did  not  own  a  magazine 
wherewith  to  make  its  claim  less  modest. 

The  newspapers  calculated  Martin's  royalties.  In 
some  way  the  magnificent  offers  certain  magazines  had 
made  him  leaked  out,  and  Oakland  ministers  called  upon 
him  in  a  friendly  way,  while  professional  begging  letters 
began  to  clutter  his  mail.  But  worse  than  all  this  were 
the  women.  His  photographs  were  published  broadcast, 
and  special  writers  exploited  his  strong,  bronzed  face,  his 
scars,  his  heavy  shoulders,  his  clear,  quiet  eyes,  and  the 
slight  hollows  in  his  cheeks  like  an  ascetic's.  At  this  last 
he  remembered  his  wild  youth  and  smiled.  Often,  among 
the  women  he  met,  he  would  see  now  one,  now  another, 
looking  at  him,  appraising  him,  selecting  him.  He  laughed 
to  himself.  He  remembered  Brissenden's  warning  and 
laughed  again.  The  women  would  never  destroy  him, 
that  much  was  certain.  He  had  gone  past  that  stage. 

Once,  walking  with  Lizzie  toward  night  school,  she 
caught  a  glance  directed  toward  him  by  a  well-gowned, 
handsome  woman  of  the  bourgeoisie.  The  glance  was  a 
trifle  too  long,  a  shade  too  considerative.  Lizzie  knew  it 
for  what  it  was,  and  her  body  tensed  angrily.  Martin 
noticed,  noticed  the  cause  of  it,  told  her  how  used  he  was 
becoming  to  it  and  that  he  did  not  care  anyway. 


388  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  You  ought  to  care,"  she  answered  with  blazing  eyes. 
"You're  sick.  That's  what's  the  matter." 

"  Never  healthier  in  my  life.  I  weigh  five  pounds  more 
than  I  ever  did." 

"It  ain't  your  body.  It's  your  head.  Something's 
wrong  with  your  think-machine.  Even  I  can  see  that, 
an'  I  ain't  nobody." 

He  walked  on  beside  her,  reflecting. 

"  I'd  give  anything  to  see  you  get  over  it,"  she  broke 
out  impulsively.  "  You  ought  to  care  when  women  look 
at  you  that  way,  a  man  like  you.  It's  not  natural.  It's 
all  right  enough  for  sissy-boys.  But  you  ain't  made  that 
way.  So  help  me,  I'd  be  willing  an'  glad  if  the  right 
woman  came  along  an'  made  you  care." 

When  he  left  Lizzie  at  night  school,  he  returned  to  the 
Metropole. 

Once  in  his  rooms,  he  dropped  into  a  Morris  chair  and 
sat  staring  straight  before  him.  He  did  not  doze.  Nor 
did  he  think.  His  mind  was  a  blank,  save  for  the  inter 
vals  when  unsummoned  memory  pictures  took  form  and 
color  and  radiance  just  under  his  eyelids.  He  saw  these 
pictures,  but  he  was  scarcely  conscious  of  them  —  no  more 
so  than  if  they  had  been  dreams.  Yet  he  was  not  asleep. 
Once,  he  roused  himself  and  glanced  at  his  watch.  It  was 
just  eight  o'clock.  He  had  nothing  to  do,  and  it  was  too 
early  for  bed.  Then  his  mind  went  blank  again,  and  the 
pictures  began  to  form  and  vanish  under  his  eyelids. 
There  was  nothing  distinctive  about  the  pictures.  They 
were  always  masses  of  leaves  and  shrub-like  branches  shot 
through  with  hot  sunshine. 

A  knock  at  the  door  aroused  him.  He  was  not  asleep, 
and  his  mind  immediately  connected  the  knock  with  a 
telegram,  or  letter,  or  perhaps  one  of  the  servants  bring 
ing  back  clean  clothes  from  the  laundry.  He  was  think 
ing  about  Joe  and  wondering  where  he  was,  as  he  said, 
"Come  in." 

He  was  still  thinking  about  Joe,  and  did  not  turn  tow 
ard  the  door.  He  heard  it  close  softly.  There  was  a 
long  silence.  He  forgot  that  there  had  been  a  knock  at 
the  door,  and  was  still  staring  blankly  before  him  when 


MARTIN  EDEN  389 

he  heard  a  woman's  sob.  It  was  involuntary,  spasmodic, 
checked,  and  stifled  —  he  noted  that  as  he  turned  about. 
The  next  instant  he  was  on  his  feet. 

"  Ruth !  "  he  said,  amazed  and  bewildered. 

Her  face  was  white  and  strained.  She  stood  just  inside 
the  door,  one  hand  against  it  for  support,  the  other  pressed 
to  her  side.  She  extended  both  hands  toward  him  pite- 
ously,  and  started  forward  to  meet  him.  As  he  caught 
her  hands  and  led  her  to  the  Morris  chair  he  noticed  how 
cold  they  were.  He  drew  up  another  chair  and  sat  down 
on  the  broad  arm  of  it.  He  was  too  confused  to  speak.  In 
his  own  mind  his  affair  with  Rath  was  closed  and  sealed. 
He  felt  much  in  the  same  way  that  he  would  have  felt 
had  the  Shelly  Hot  Springs  Laundry  suddenly  invaded 
the  Hotel  Metropole  with  a  whole  week's  washing  ready 
for  him  to  pitch  into.  Several  times  he  was  about  to 
speak,  and  each  time  he  hesitated. 

"  No  one  knows  I  am  here,"  Ruth  said  in  a  faint  voice, 
with  an  appealing  smile. 

"  What  did  you  say?  "  he  asked. 

He  was  surprised  at  the  sound  of  his  own  voice. 

She  repeated  her  iTTords. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  then  wondered  what  more  he  could  pos 
sibly  say. 

"I  saw  you  come  in,  and  I  waited  a  few  minutes." 

•*  Oh,"  he  said  again. 

He  had  never  been  so  tongue-tied  in  his  life.  Posi 
tively  he  did  not  have  an  idea  in  his  head.  He  felt  stupid 
and  awkward,  but  for  the  life  of  him  he  could  think  of 
nothing  to  say.  It  would  have  been  easier  had  the  in 
trusion  been  the  Shelly  Hot  Springs  laundry.  He  could 
have  rolled  up  his  sleeves  and  gone  to  work. 

"  And  then  you  came  in,"  he  said  finally. 

She  nodded,  with  a  slightly  arch  expression,  and  loosened 
the  scarf  at  her  throat. 

"  I  saw  you  first  from  across  the  street  when  you  were 
with  that  girl." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said  simply.  **  I  took  her  down  to  night 
school." 


390  MARTIN  EDEN 

"Well,  aren't  you  glad  to  see  me  ?"  she  said  at  the  end 
of  another  silence. 

"Yes,  yes."  He  spoke  hastily.  " But  wasn't  it  rash  of 
you  to  come  here  ?  " 

"  I  slipped  in.  Nobody  knows  I  am  here.  I  wanted  to 
see  you.  I  came  to  tell  you  I  have  been  very  foolish.  I 
came  because  I  could  no  longer  stay  away,  because  my  heart 
compelled  me  to  come,  because — because  I  wanted  to  come." 

She  came  forward,  out  of  her  chair  and  over  to  him. 
She  rested  her  hand  on  his  shoulder  a  moment,  breathing 
quickly,  and  then  slipped  into  his  arms.  And  in  his  large, 
easy  way,  desirous  of  not  inflicting  hurt,  knowing  that  to 
repulse  this  proffer  of  herself  was  to  inflict  the  most  griev 
ous  hurt  a  woman  could  receive,  he  folded  his  arms  around 
her  and  held  her  close.  But  there  was  no  warmth  in  the 
embrace,  no  caress  in  the  contact.  She  had  come  into  his 
arms,  and  he  held  her,  that  was  all.  She  nestled  against 
him,  and  then,  with  a  change  of  position,  her  hands  crept 
up  and  rested  upon  his  neck.  But  his  flesh  was  not  fire  be 
neath  those  hands,  and  he  felt  awkward  and  uncomfortable. 

"  What  makes  you  tremble  so  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Is  it  a 
chill  ?  Shall  I  light  the  grate  ?  " 

He  made  a  movement  to  disengage  himself,  but  she  clung 
more  closely  to  him,  shivering  violently. 

"  It  is  merely  nervousness,"  she  said  with  chattering 
teeth.  "  I'll  control  myself  in  a  minute.  There,  I  am 
better  already." 

Slowly  her  shivering  died  away.  He  continued  to 
hold  her,  but  he  was  no  longer  puzzled.  He  knew  now  for 
what  she  had  come. 

"  My  mother  wanted  me  to  marry  Charley  Hapgood," 
she  announced. 

"Charley  Hapgood,  that  fellow  who  speaks  always  in 
platitudes  ?  "  Martin  groaned.  Then  he  added,  "  And  now, 
I  suppose,  your  mother  wants  you  to  marry  me." 

He  did  not  put  it  in  the  form  of  a  question.  He  stated 
it  as  a  certitude,  and  before  his  eyes  began  to  dance  the 
rows  of  figures  of  his  royalties. 

"  She  will  not  object,  I  know  that  much,"  Ruth  said. 

"  She  considers  me  quite  eligible?" 


MARTIN  EDEN  391 

Ruth  nodded. 

"  And  yet  I  am  not  a  bit  more  eligible  now  than  I  was 
•when  she  broke  our  engagement,"  he  meditated.  "I 
haven't  changed  any.  I'm  the  same  Martin  Eden,  though 
for  that  matter  I'm  a  bit  worse  —  I  smoke  now.  Don't 
you  smell  my  breath  ?  " 

In  reply  she  pressed  her  open  fingers  against  his  lips, 
placed  them  graciously  and  playfully,  and  in  expectancy 
of  the  kiss  that  of  old  had  always  been  a  consequence. 
But  there  was  no  caressing  answer  of  Martin's  lips.  He 
waited  until  the  fingers  were  removed  and  then  went  on. 

"I  am  not  changed.  I  haven't  got  a  job.  I'm  not 
looking  for  a  job.  Furthermore,  I  am  not  going  to  look 
for  a  job.  And  I  still  believe  that  Herbert  Spencer  is  a 
great  and  noble  man  and  that  Judge  Blount  is  an  unmiti 
gated  ass.  I  had  dinner  with  him  the  other  night,  so  I 
ought  to  know." 

"  But  you  didn't  accept  father's  invitation,"  she  chided. 

"  So  yc1!  know  about  that  ?  Who  sent  him  ?  Your 
mother?" 

She  remained  silent. 

"  Then  she  did  send  him.  I  thought  so.  And  now  I 
suppose  she  has  sent  you." 

"  No  one  knows  that  I  am  here,"  she  protested.  *'  Do 
you  think  my  mother  would  permit  this  ?  " 

"  She'd  permit  you  to  marry  me,  that's  certain." 

She  gave  a  sharp  cry.  "  Oh,  Martin,  don't  be  cruel. 
You  have  not  kissed  me  once.  You  are  as  unresponsive  as 
a  stone.  And  think  what  I  have  dared  to  do."  She 
looked  about  her  with  a  shiver,  though  half  the  look  was 
curiosity.  "  Just  think  of  where  I  am." 

"  I could  die  for  you!  I  could  die  for  you!"  —  Lizzie's 
words  were  ringing  in  his  ears. 

"  Why  didn't  you  dare  it  before  ? "  he  asked  harshly. 
"  When  I  hadn't  a  job  ?  When  I  was  starving  ?  When 
I  was  just  as  I  am  now,  as  a  man,  as  an  artist,  the  same 
Martin  Eden  ?  That's  the  question  I've  been  propounding 
to  myself  for  many  a  day  —  not  concerning  you  merely, 
concerning  everybody.  You  see  I  have  not  changed, 


392  MARTIN  EDEN 

though  my  sudden  apparent  appreciation  in  value  compels 
me  constantly  to  reassure  myself  on  that  point.  I've  got 
the  same  flesh  on  my  bones,  the  same  ten  fingers  and  toes. 
I  am  the  same.  I  have  not  developed  any  new  strength 
nor  virtue.  My  brain  is  the  same  old  brain.  I  haven't 
made  even  one  new  generalization  on  literature  or  phi 
losophy.  I  am  personally  of  the  same  value  that  I  was 
when  nobody  wanted  me.  And  what  is  puzzling  me  is 
why  they  want  me  now.  Surely  they  don't  want  me  for 
myself,  for  myself  is  the  same  old  self  they  did  not  want. 
Then  they  must  want  me  for  something  else,  for  something 
that  is  outside  of  me,  for  something  that  is  not  I!  Shall 
I  tell  you  what  that  something  is  ?  It  is  for  the  recognition 
I  have  received.  That  recognition  is  not  I.  It  resides  in 
the  minds  of  others.  Then  again  for  the  money  I  have 
earned  and  am  earning.  But  that  money  is  not  I.  It  re 
sides  in  banks  and  in  the  pockets  of  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry. 
And  is  it  for  that,  for  the  recognition  and  the  money,  that 
you  now  want  me  ?  " 

"You  are  breaking  my  heart,"  she  sobbed.  "You 
know  I  love  you,  that  I  am  here  because  I  love  you." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  don't  see  my  point,"  he  said  gently. 
"What  I  mean  is:  if  you  love  me,  how  does  it  happen 
that  you  love  me  now  so  much  more  than  you  did  when 
your  love  was  weak  enough  to  deny  me  ?  " 

"  Forget  and  forgive,"  she  cried  passionately.  "  I  loved 
you  all  the  time,  remember  that,  and  I  am  here,  now,  in 
your  arms." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  am  a  shrewd  merchant,  peering  into  the 
scales,  trying  to  weigh  your  love  and  find  out  what  man 
ner  of  thing  it  is." 

She  withdrew  herself  from  his  arms,  sat  upright,  and 
looked  at  him  long  and  searchingly.  She  was  about  to 
speak,  then  faltered  and  changed  her  mind. 

"You  see,  it  appears  this  way  to  me,"  he  went  on. 
"  When  I  was  all  that  I  am  now,  nobody  out  of  my  own 
class  seemed  to  care  for  me.  When  my  books  were  all 
written,  no  one  who  had  read  the  manuscripts  seemed  to 
care  for  them.  In  point  of  fact,  because  of  the  stuff  I  had 


MARTIN  EDEN  393 

written  they  seemed  to  care  even  less  for  me.  In  writing 
the  stuff  it  seemed  that  I  had  committed  acts  that  were,  to 
say  the  least,  derogatory.  *  Get  a  job,'  everybody  said." 

She  made  a  movement  of  dissent. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said;  "  except  in  your  case  you  told  me 
to  get  a  position.  The  homely  word  job,  like  much  that 
I  have  written,  offends  you.  It  is  brutal.  But  I  assure 
you  it  was  no  less  brutal  to  me  when  everybody  I  knew 
recommended  it  to  me  as  they  would  recommend  right 
conduct  to  an  immoral  creature.  But  to  return.  The 
publication  of  what  I  had  written,  and  the  public  notice 
I  received,  wrought  a  change  in  the  fibre  of  your  love. 
Martin  Eden,  with  his  work  all  performed,  you  would  not 
marry.  Your  love  for  him  was  not  strong  enough  to 
enable  you  to  marry  him.  But  your  love  is  now  strong 
enough,  and  I  cannot  avoid  the  conclusion  that  its 
strength  arises  from  the  publication  and  the  public  notice. 
In  your  case  I  do  not  mention  royalties,  though  I  am 
certain  that  they  apply  to  the  change  wrought  in  your 
mother  and  father.  Of  course,  all  this  is  not  flattering 
to  me.  But  worst  of  all,  it  makes  me  question  love, 
sacred  love.  Is  love  so  gross  a  thing  that  it  must  feed 
upon  publication  and  public  notice?  It  would  seem 
so.  I  have  sat  and  thought  upon  it  till  my  head  went 
around." 

"  Poor,  dear  head."  She  reached  up  a  hand  and  passed 
the  fingers  soothingly  through  his  hair.  "Let  it  go 
around  no  more.  Let  us  begin  anew,  now.  I  loved  you 
all  the  time.  I  know  that  I  was  weak  in  yielding  to  my 
mother's  will.  I  should  not  have  done  so.  Yet  I  have 
heard  you  speak  so  often  with  broad  charity  of  the  falli 
bility  and  frailty  of  humankind.  Extend  that  charity  to 
me.  I  acted  mistakenly.  Forgive  me." 

"  Oh,  I  do  forgive,"  he  said  impatiently.  "  It  is  easy 
to  forgive  where  there  is  really  nothing  to  forgive.  Noth 
ing  that  you  have  done  requires  forgiveness.  One  acts 
according  to  one's  lights,  and  more  than  that  one  cannot 
do.  As  well  might  I  ask  you  to  forgive  me  for  my  uot 
getting  a  job." 


394  MARTIN  EDEN 

"  I  meant  well,"  she  protested.  "  You  know  that.  I 
could  not  have  loved  you  and  not  meant  well." 

"True;  but  you  would  have  destroyed  me  out  of  your 
well-meaning. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  shut  off  her  attempted  objection.  "  You 
would  have  destroyed  my  writing  and  my  career.  Real 
ism  is  imperative  to  my  nature,  and  the  bourgeois  spirit 
hates  realism.  The  bourgeoisie  is  cowardly.  It  is  afraid 
of  life.  And  all  your  effort  was  to  make  me  afraid  of 
life.  You  would  have  formalized  me.  You  would  have 
compressed  me  into  a  two-by-four  pigeonhole  of  life, 
where  all  life's  values  are  unreal,  and  false,  and  vulgar." 
He  felt  her  stir  protestingly.  "Vulgarity  —  a  hearty 
vulgarity,  I'll  admit — is  the  basis  of  bourgeois  refine 
ment  and  culture.  As  I  say,  you  wanted  to  formalize 
me,  to  make  me  over  into  one  of  your  own  class,  with 
your  class-ideals,  class-values,  and  class-prejudices."  He 
shook  his  head  sadly.  "And  you  do  not  understand, 
even  now,  what  I  am  saying.  My  words  do  not  mean  to 
you  what  I  endeavor  to  make  them  mean.  What  I  say 
is  so  much  fantasy  to  you.  Yet  to  me  it  is  vital  reality. 
At  the  best  you  are  a  trifle  puzzled  and  amused  that  this 
raw  boy,  crawling  up  out  of  the  mire  of  the  abyss,  should 
pass  judgment  upon  your  class  and  call  it  vulgar." 

She  leaned  her  head  wearily  against  his  shoulder,  and 
her  body  shivered  with  recurrent  nervousness.  He  waited 
for  a  time  for  her  to  speak,  and  then  went  on. 

"  And  now  you  want  to  renew  our  love.  You  want  us 
to  be  married.  You  want  me.  And  yet,  listen  —  if  my 
books  had  not  been  noticed,  I'd  nevertheless  have  been 
just  what  I  am  now.  And  you  would  have  stayed  away. 
It  is  all  those  damned  books — " 

"  Don't  swear,"  she  interrupted. 

Her  reproof  startled  him.  He  broke  into  a  harsh 
laugh. 

"That's  it,"  he  said,  "at  a  high  moment,  when  what 
seems  your  life's  happiness  is  at  stake,  you  are  afraid  gf 
life  in  the  same  old  way  —  afraid  of  life  and  a  healthy 
oath." 


MARTIN  EDEN  395 

She  was  stung  by  his  words  into  realization  of  the 
puerility  of  her  act,  and  yet  she  felt  that  he  had  magni 
fied  it  unduly  and  was  consequently  resentful.  They  sat 
in  silence  for  a  long  time,  she  thinking  desperately  and 
he  pondering  upon  his  love  which  had  departed.  He 
knew,  now,  that  he  had  not  really  loved  her.  It  was  an 
idealized  Ruth  he  had  loved,  an  ethereal  creature  of  his 
own  creating,  the  bright  and  luminous  spirit  of  his  love- 
poems.  The  real  bourgeois  Ruth,  with  all  the  bourgeois 
failings  and  with  the  hopeless  cramp  of  the  bourgeois 
psychology  in  her  mind,  he  had  never  loved. 

She  suddenly  began  to  speak. 

"  I  know  that  much  you  have  said  is  so.  I  have  been 
afraid  of  life.  I  did  not  love  you  well  enough.  I  have 
learned  to  love  better.  I  love  you  for  what  you  are,  for 
what  you  were,  for  the  ways  even  by  which  you  have 
become.  I  love  you  for  the  ways  wherein  you  differ  from 
what  you  call  my  class,  for  your  beliefs  which  I  do  not 
understand  but  which  I  know  I  can  come  to  understand. 
I  shall  devote  myself  to  understanding  them.  And  even 
your  smoking  and  your  swearing  —  they  are  part  of  you 
and  I  will  love  you  for  them,  too.  I  can  still  learn. 
In  the  last  ten  minutes  I  have  learned  much.  That  I 
have  dared  to  come  here  is  a  token  of  what  I  have  already 
learned.  Oh,  Martin !  —  " 

She  was  sobbing  and  nestling  close  against  him. 

For  the  first  time  his  arms  folded  her  gently  and  with 
sympathy,  and  she  acknowledged  it  with  a  happy  move 
ment  and  a  brightening  face. 

"It  is  too  late,'*  he  said.  He  remembered  Lizzie's 
words.  "  I  am  a  sick  man  —  oh,  not  my  body.  It  is 
my  soul,  my  brain.  I  seem  to  have  lost  all  values.  I 
care  for  nothing.  If  you  had  been  this  way  a  few  months 
ago,  it  would  have  been  different.  It  is  too  late,  now." 

"  It  is  not  too  late,"  she  cried.  "  I  will  show  you.  I 
will  prove  to  you  that  my  love  has  grown,  that  it  is 
greater  to  me  than  my  class  and  all  that  is  dearest  to 
me.  All  that  is  dearest  to  the  bourgeoisie  I  will  flout. 
I  am  no  longer  afraid  of  life.  I  will  leave  my  father  and 


396  MARTIN  EDEN 

mother,  and  let  my  name  become  a  by-word  with  my 
friends.  I  will  come  to  you  here  and  now,  in  free  love 
if  you  will,  and  I  will  be  proud  and  glad  to  be  with  you. 
If  I  have  been  a  traitor  to  love,  I  will  now,  for  love's 
sake,  be  a  traitor  to  all  that  made  that  earlier  treason." 

She  stood  before  him,  with  shining  eyes. 

"I  am  waiting,  Martin,"  she  whispered,  "waiting  for 
you  to  accept  me.  Look  at  me." 

It  was  splendid,  he  thought,  looking  at  her.  She  had 
redeemed  herself  for  all  that  she  had  lacked,  rising  up  at 
last,  true  woman,  superior  to  the  iron  rule  of  bourgeois 
convention.  It  was  splendid,  magnificent,  desperate.  And 
yet,  what  was  the  matter  with  him  ?  He  was  not  thrilled 
nor  stirred  by  what  she  had  done.  It  was  splendid  and 
magnificent  only  intellectually.  In  what  should  have  been 
a  moment  of  fire,  he  coldly  appraised  her.  His  heart 
was  untouched.  He  was  unaware  of  any  desire  for  her. 
Again  he  remembered  Lizzie's  words. 

"  I  am  sick,  very  sick,"  he  said  with  a  despairing  ges 
ture.  "  How  sick  I  did  not  know  till  now.  Something 
has  gone  out  of  me.  I  have  always  been  unafraid  of  life, 
but  I  never  dreamed  of  being  sated  with  life.  Life  has 
so  filled  me  that  I  am  empty  of  any  desire  for  anything. 
If  there  were  room,  I  should  want  you,  now.  You  see 
how  sick  I  am." 

He  leaned  his  head  back  and  closed  his  eyes  ;  and  like 
a  child,  crying,  that  forgets  its  grief  in  watching  the  sun 
light  percolate  through  the  tear-dimmed  films  over  the 
pupils,  so  Martin  forgot  his  sickness,  the  presence  of 
Ruth,  everything,  in  watching  the  masses  of  vegetation, 
shot  through  hotly  with  sunshine  that  took  form  and 
blazed  against  the  background  of  his  eyelids.  It  was 
not  restful,  that  green  foliage.  The  sunlight  was  too 
raw  and  glaring.  It  hurt  him  to  look  at  it,  and  yet  he 
looked,  he  knew  not  why. 

He  was  brought  back  to  himself  by  the  rattle  of  the 
door-knob.  Ruth  was  at  the  door. 

"  How  shall  I  get  out  ?  "  she  questioned  tearfully.  "  I 
am  afraid." 


MARTIN  EDEN  397 

"Oh,  forgive  me,"  he  cried,  springing  to  his  feet. 
"  I'm  not  myself,  you  know.  I  forgot  you  were  here." 
He  put  his  hand  to  his  head.  "You  see,  I'm  not  just 
right.  I'll  take  you  home.  We  can  go  out  by  the 
servants'  entrance.  No  one  will  see  us.  Pull  down 
that  veil  and  everything  will  be  all  right." 

She  clung  to  his  arm  through  the  dim-lighted  passages 
and  down  the  narrow  stairs, 

"  I  am  safe  now,"  she  said,  when  they  emerged  on  the 
sidewalk,  at  the  same  time  starting  to  take  her  hand 
from  his  arm. 

"  No,  no,  I'll  see  you  home,"  he  answered. 

"  No,  please  don't,"  she  objected.     "  It  is  unnecessary." 

Again  she  started  to  remove  her  hand.  He  felt  a 
momentary  curiosity.  Now  that  she  was  out  of  danger 
she  was  afraid.  She  was  in  almost  a  panic  to  be  quit  of 
him.  He  could  see  no  reason  for  it  and  attributed  it  to 
her  nervousness.  So  he  restrained  her  withdrawing  hand 
and  started  to  walk  on  with  her.  Halfway  down  the 
block,  he  saw  a  man  in  a  long  overcoat  shrink  back  into 
a  doorway.  He  shot  a  glance  in  as  he  passed  by,  and, 
despite  the  high  turned-up  collar,  he  was  certain  that  he 
recognized  Ruth's  brother,  Norman. 

During  the  walk  Ruth  and  Martin  held  little  conversa 
tion.  She  was  stunned.  He  was  apathetic.  Once,  he 
mentioned  that  he  was  going  away,  back  to  the  South  Seas, 
and,  once,  she  asked  him  to  forgive  her  having  come  to 
him.  And  that  was  all.  The  parting  at  her  door  was 
conventional.  They  shook  hands,  said  good  night,  and 
he  lifted  his  hat.  The  door  swung  shut,  and  he  lighted 
a  cigarette  and  turned  back  for  his  hotel.  When  he  came 
to  the  doorway  into  which  he  had  seen  Norman  shrink,  he 
stopped  and  looked  in  in  a  speculative  humor. 

"  She  lied,"  he  said  aloud.  "  She  made  believe  to  me 
that  she  had  dared  greatly,  and  all  the  while  she  knew 
the  brother  that  brought  her  was  waiting  to  take  her 
back."  He  burst  into  laughter.  "  Oh,  these  bourgeois  I 
When  I  was  broke,  I  was  not  fit  to  be  seen  with  his  sister. 
When  I  have  a  bank  account,  he  brings  her  to  me." 


398  MARTIN  EDEN 

As  he  swung  on  his  heel  to  go  on,  a  tramp,  going  in  the 
same  direction,  begged  him  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Say,  mister,  can  you  give  me  a  quarter  to  get  a  bed  ? " 
were  the  words. 

But  it  was  the  voice  that  made  Martin  turn  around. 
The  next  instant  he  had  Joe  by  the  hand. 

"D'ye  remember  that  time  we  parted  at  the  Hot 
Springs?  "  the  other  was  saying.  "  I  said  then  we'd  meet 
again.  I  felt  it  in  my  bones.  An'  here  we  are." 

"  You're  looking  good,"  Martin  said  admiringly,  "  and 
you've  put  on  weight." 

"  I  sure  have."  Joe's  face  was  beaming.  "  I  never 
knew  what  it  was  to  live  till  I  hit  hoboin'.  I'm  thirty 
pounds  heavier  an'  feel  tiptop  all  the  time.  Why,  I  was 
worked  to  skin  an'  bone  in  them  old  days.  Hoboin'  sure 
agrees  with  me." 

"  But  you're  looking  for  a  bed  just  the  same,"  Martin 
chided,  "and  it's  a  cold  night." 

"Huh?  Lookin'  for  a  bed?"  Joe  shot  a  hand  into  his 
hip  pocket  and  brought  it  out  filled  with  small  change. 
"  That  beats  hard  graft,"  he  exulted.  "  You  just  looked 
good;  that's  why  I  battered  you." 

Martin  laughed  and  gave  in. 

"You've  several  full-sized  drunks  right  there,"  he 
insinuated. 

Joe  slid  the  money  back  into  his  pocket. 

"  Not  in  mine,"  he  announced.  "  No  gettin'  oryide  for 
me,  though  there  ain't  nothin'  to  stop  me  except  I  don't 
want  to.  I've  ben  drunk  once  since  I  seen  you  last,  an'  then 
it  was  unexpected,  bein'  on  an  empty  stomach.  When  I 
work  like  a  beast,  I  drink  like  a  beast.  When  I  live  like 
a  man,  I  drink  like  a  man  —  a  jolt  now  an'  again  when  I 
feel  like  it,  an'  that's  all." 

Martin  arranged  to  meet  him  next  day,  and  went  on  to 
the  hotel.  He  paused  in  the  office  to  look  up  steamer 
sailings.  The  Mariposa  sailed  for  Tahiti  in  five  days. 

"Telephone  over  to-morrow  and  reserve  a  stateroom 
for  me,"  he  told  the  clerk.  "No  deck-stateroom,  but 
down  below,  on  the  weather-side,  —  the  port-side,  re- 


MARTIN  EDEN  399 

member   that,    the   port-side.        You'd    better   write    it 
down." 

Once  in  his  room  he  got  into  bed  and  slipped  off  to 
sleep  as  gently  as  a  child.  The  occurrences  of  the  evening 
had  made  no  impression  on  him.  His  mind  was  dead  to 
impressions.  The  glow  of  warmth  with  which  he  met 
Joe  had  been  most  fleeting.  The  succeeding  minute  he 
had  been  bothered  by  the  ex-laundryman's  presence  and 
by  the  compulsion  of  conversation.  That  in  five  more 
days  he  sailed  for  his  loved  South  Seas  meant  nothing  to 
him.  So  he  closed  his  eyes  and  slept  normally  and  com 
fortably  for  eight  uninterrupted  hours.  He  was  not  rest 
less.  He  did  not  change  his  position,  nor  did  he  dream. 
Sleep  had  become  to  him  oblivion,  and  each  day  that  he 
awoke,  he  awoke  with  regret.  Life  worried  and  bored 
him,  and  time  was  a  vexation. 


CHAPTER  XL VI 

"  SAT,  Joe,"  was  his  greeting  to  his  aid-time  working- 
mate  next  morning,  "  there's  a  Frenchman  out  on 
Twenty-eighth  Street.  He's  made  a  pot  of  money,  and 
he's  going  back  to  France.  It's  a  dandy,  well-appointed, 
small  steam  laundry.  There's  a  start  for  you  if  you  want  to 
settle  down.  Here,  take  this;  buy  some  clothes  with  it  and 
be  at  this  man's  office  by  ten  o'clock.  He  looked  up  the 
laundry  for  me,  and  he'll  take  you  out  and  show  you 
around.  If  you  like  it,  and  think  it  is  worth  the  price  — 
twelve  thousand  —  let  me  know  and  it  is  yours.  Now  run 
along.  I'm  busy.  I'll  see  you  later." 

"Now  look  here,  Mart,"  the  other  said  slowly,  with 
kindling  anger,  "  I  come  here  this  mornin'  to  see  you. 
Savve  ?  I  didn't  come  here  to  get  no  laundry.  I  come 
here  for  a  talk  for  old  friends'  sake,  and  you  shove  a  laun 
dry  at  me.  I  tell  you  what  you  can  do.  You  can  take 
that  laundry  an'  go  to  hell." 

He  was  starting  to  fling  out  of  the  room  when  Martin 
caught  him  by  the  shoulder  and  whirle  I  him  around. 

"  Now  look  here,  Joe,"  he  said;  "  if  you  act  that  way,  I'll 
punch  your  head.  And  for  old  friends'  sake  I'll  punch  it 
hard.  Savve  ?  —  you  will,  will  you  ?  " 

Joe  had  clinched  and  attempted  to  throw  him,  and  he 
was  twisting  and  writhing  out  of  the  advantage  of  the 
other's  hold.  They  reeled  about  the  room,  locked  in  each 
other's  arms,  and  came  down  with  a  crash  across  the  splin 
tered  wreckage  of  a  wicker  chair.  Joe  was  underneath, 
with  arms  spread  out  and  held  and  with  Martin's  knee  on 
his  chest.  He  was  panting  and  gasping  for  breath  when 
Martin  released  him. 

"  Now  we'll  talk  a  moment,"  Martin  said.  "  You  can't 

400 


MARTIN  EDEN  401 

get  fresh  with  me.  I  want  that  laundry  business  finished 
first  of  all.  Then  you  can  come  back  and  we'll  talk  for 
old  sake's  sake.  I  told  you  I  was  busy.  Look  at  that." 

A  servant  had  just  come  in  with  the  morning  mail,  a 
great  mass  of  letters  and  magazines. 

"  How  can  I  wade  through  that  and  talk  with  you  ? 
You  go  and  fix  up  that  laundry,  and  then  we'll  get  to 
gether." 

"  All  right,"  Joe  admitted  reluctantly.  "  I  thought  you 
was  turnin'  me  down,  but  I  guess  I  was  mistaken.  But 
you  can't  lick  me,  Mart,  in  a  stand-up  fight.  I've  got  the 
reach  on  you." 

"  We'll  put  on  the  gloves  sometime  and  see,"  Martin 
said  with  a  smile. 

"Sure;  as  soon  as  I  get  that  laundry  going."  Joe  ex 
tended  his  arm.  "  You  see  that  reach  ?  It'll  make  you  go 
a  few." 

Martin  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  when  the  door  closed 
behind  the  laundryman.  He  was  becoming  anti-social. 
Daily  he  found  it  a  severer  strain  to  be  decent  with  people. 
Their  presence  perturbed  him,  and  the  effort  of  conversation 
irritated  him.  They  made  him  restless,  and  no  sooner  was 
he  in  contact  with  them  than  he  was  casting  about  for  ex 
cuses  to  get  rid  of  them. 

He  did  not  proceed  to  attack  his  mail,  and  for  a  half 
hour  he  lolled  in  his  chair,  doing  nothing,  while  no  more 
than  vague,  half-formed  thoughts  occasionally  filtered 
through  his  intelligence,  or  rather,  at  wide  intervals,  them 
selves  constituted  the  flickering  of  his  intelligence. 

He  roused  himself  and  began  glancing  through  his  mail. 
There  were  adozen  requests  for  autographs — he  knew  them 
at  sight;  there  were  professional  begging  letters;  and  there 
were  letters  from  cranks,  ranging  from  the  man  with  a 
working  model  of  perpetual  motion,  and  the  man  who 
demonstrated  that  the  surface  of  the  earth  was  the  inside 
of  a  hollow  sphere,  to  the  man  seeking  financial  aid  to  pur 
chase  the  Peninsula  of  Lower  California  for  the  purpose  of 
eommunist  colonization.  There  were  letters  from  women 
seeking  to  know  him,  and  over  one  such  he  smiled,  for  en- 


402  MARTIN  EDEN 

closed  was  her  receipt  for  pew-rent,  sent  as  evidence  of  her 
good  faith  and  as  proof  of  her  respectability. 

Editors  and  publishers  contributed  to  the  daily  heap  of 
letters,  the  former  on  their  knees  for  his  manuscripts,  the 
latter  on  their  knees  for  his  books  —  his  poor  disdained 
manuscripts  that  had  kept  all  he  possessed  in  pawn  for 
so  many  dreary  months  in  order  to  find  them  in  postage. 
There  were  unexpected  checks  for  English  serial  rights 
and  for  advance  payments  on  foreign  translations.  His 
English  agent  announced  the  sale  of  German  translation 
rights  in  three  of  his  books,  and  informed  him  that  Swed 
ish  editions,  from  which  he  could  expect  nothing  because 
Sweden  was  not  a  party  to  the  Berne  Convention,  were 
already  on  the  market.  Then  there  was  a  nominal  request 
for  his  permission  for  a  Russian  translation,  that  country 
being  likewise  outside  the  Berne  Convention. 

He  turned  to  the  huge  bundle  of  clippings  which  had 
come  in  from  his  press  bureau,  and  read  about  himself  and 
his  vogue,  which  had  become  a  furore.  All  his  creative 
output  had  been  flung  to  the  public  in  one  magnificent 
sweep.  That  seemed  to  account  for  it.  He  had  taken 
the  public  off  its  feet,  the  way  Kipling  had,  that  time  when 
he  lay  near  to  death  and  all  the  mob,  animated  by  a  mob- 
mind  thought,  began  suddenly  to  read  him.  Martin  re 
membered  how  that  same  world-mob,  having  read  him  and 
acclaimed  him  and  not  understood  him  in  the  least,  had, 
abruptly,  a  few  months  later,  flung  itself  upon  him  and 
torn  him  to  pieces.  Martin  grinned  at  the  thought.  Who 
was  he  that  he  should  not  be  similarly  treated  in  a  few 
more  months  ?  Well,  he  would  fool  the  mob.  He  would 
be  away,  in  the  South  Seas,  building  his  grass  house,  trad 
ing  for  pearls  and  copra,  jumping  reefs  in  frail  outriggers, 
catching  sharks  and  bonitas,  hunting  wild  goats  among 
the  cliffs  of  the  valley  that  lay  next  to  the  valley  of 
Taiohae. 

^  In  the  moment  of  that  thought  the  desperateness  of  his 
situation  dawned  upon  him.  "He  saw,  cleared  eyed,  that 
he  was  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow.  All  the  life  that 
was  in  him  was  fading,  fainting,  making  toward  death. 


MARTIN  EDEN  403 

He  realized  how  much  he  slept,  and  how  much  he  desired 
to  sleep.  Of  old,  he  had  hated  sleep.  It  had  robbed  him  of 
precious  moments  of  living.  Four  hours  of  sleep  in  the 
twenty-four  had  meant  being  robbed  of  four  hours  of  life. 
How  he  had  grudged  sleep!  Now  it  was  life  he  grudged. 
Life  was  not  good ;  its  taste  in  his  mouth  was  without 
tang,  and  bitter.  This  was  his  peril.  Life  that  did  not 
yearn  toward  life  was  in  fair  way  toward  ceasing.  Some 
remote  instinct  for  preservation  stirred  in  him,  and  he 
knew  he  must  get  away.  He  glanced  about  the  room,  and 
the  thought  of  packing  was  burdensome.  Perhaps  it 
would  be  better  to  leave  that  to  the  last.  In  the  mean 
time  he  might  be  getting  an  outfit. 

He  put  on  his  hat  and  went  out,  stopping  in  at  a  gun- 
store,  where  he  spent  the  remainder  of  the  morning  buy 
ing  automatic  rifles,  ammunition,  and  fishing  tackle. 
Fashions  changed  in  trading,  and  he  knew  he  would  have 
to  wait  till  he  reached  Tahiti  before  ordering  his  trade- 
goods.  They  could  come  up  from  Australia,  anyway. 
This  solution  was  a  source  of  pleasure.  He  had  avoided 
doing  something,  and  the  doing  of  anything  just  now  was 
unpleasant.  He  went  back  to  the  hotel  gladly,  with  a 
feeling  of  satisfaction  in  that  the  comfortable  Morris  chair 
was  waiting  for  him  ;  and  he  groaned  inwardly,  on  enter 
ing  his  room,  at  sight  of  Joe  in  the  Morris  chair. 

Joe  was  delighted  with  the  laundry.  Everything  was 
settled,  and  he  would  enter  into  possession  next  day. 
Martin  lay  on  the  bed,  with  closed  eyes,  while  the  other 
talked  on.  Martin's  thoughts  were  far  away  —  so  far 
away  that  he  was  rarely  aware  that  he  was  thinking.  It 
was  only  by  an  effort  that  he  occasionally  responded. 
And  yet  this  was  Joe,  whom  he  had  always  liked.  But 
Joe  was  too  keen  with  life.  The  boisterous  impact  of  it 
on  Martin's  jaded  mind  was  a  hurt.  It  was  an  aching  probe 
to  his  tired  sensitiveness.  When  Joe  reminded  him  that 
sometime  in  the  future  they  were  going  to  put  on  the 
gloves  together,  he  could  almost  have  screamed. 

"  Remember,  Joe,  you're  to  run  the  laundry  according 
to  those  old  rules  you  used  to  lay  down  at  Shelly  Hot 


404  MARTIN 

Springs,"  he  said.  "  No  overworking.  No  working  at 
night.  And  no  children  at  the  mangles.  No  children 
anywhere.  And  a  fair  wage." 

Joe  nodded  and  pulled  out  a  note-book. 

"  Look  at  here.  I  was  workin'  out  them  rules  before 
breakfast  this  A.M.  What  d'ye  think  of  them?  " 

He  read  them  aloud,  and  Martin  approved,  worrying  at 
the  same  time  as  to  when  Joe  would  take  himself  off. 

It  was  late  afternoon  when  he  awoke.  Slowly  the  fact 
of  life  came  back  to  him.  He  glanced  about  the  room. 
Joe  had  evidently  stolen  away  after  he  had  dozed  off. 
That  was  considerate  of  Joe,  he  thought.  Then  he  closed 
his  eyes  and  slept  again. 

In  the  days  that  followed  Joe  was  too  busy  organizing 
and  taking  hold  of  the  laundry  to  bother  him  much;  and 
it  was  not  until  the  day  before  sailing  that  the  news 
papers  made  the  announcement  that  he  had  taken  passage 
on  the  Mariposa.  Once,  when  the  instinct  of  preserva 
tion  fluttered,  he  went  to  a  doctor  and  underwent  a 
searching  physical  examination.  Nothing  could  be  found 
the  matter  with  him.  His  heart  and  lungs  were  pro 
nounced  magnificent.  Every  organ,  so  far  as  the  doctor 
could  know,  was  normal  and  was  working  normally. 

"  There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  you,  Mr.  Eden,"  he 
said,  "  positively  nothing  the  matter  with  you.  You  are 
in  the  pink  of  condition.  Candidly,  I  envy  you  your 
health.  It  is  superb.  Look  at  that  chest.  There,  and 
in  your  stomach,  lies  the  secret  of  your  remarkable  con 
stitution.  Physically,  you  are  a  man  in  a  thousand  —  in 
ten  thousand.  Barring  accidents,  you  should  live  to  be  a 
hundred." 

And  Martin  knew  that  Lizzie's  diagnosis  had  been  cor 
rect.  Physically  he  was  all  right.  It  was  his  "think- 
machme  "  that  had  gone  wrong,  and  there  was  no  cure  for 
that  except  to  get  away  to  the  South  Seas.  The  trouble 
was  that  now,  on  the  verge  of  departure,  he  had  no  desire 
to  go.  The  South  Seas  charmed  him  no  more  than  did 
bourgeois  civilization.  There  was  no  zest  in  the  thought 
of  departure,  while  the  act  of  departure  appalled  him 


MARTIN  EDEN  405 

as  a  weariness  of  the  flesh.  He  would  have  felt  better 
if  he  were  already  on  board  and  gone. 

The  last  day  was  a  sore  trial.  Having  read  of  his  sail 
ing  in  the  morning  papers,  Bernard  Higginbotham,  Ger 
trude,  and  all  the  family  came  to  say  good-by,  as  did 
Hermann  von  Schmidt  and  Marian.  Then  there  was 
business  to  be  transacted,  bills  to  be  paid,  and  everlasting 
reporters  to  be  endured.  He  said  good-by  to  Lizzie 
Connolly,  abruptly,  at  the  entrance  to  night  school,  and 
hurried  away.  At  the  hotel  he  found  Joe,  too  busy  all 
day  with  the  laundry  to  have  come  to  him  earlier.  It 
was  the  last  straw,  but  Martin  gripped  the  arms  of  his 
chair  and  talked  and  listened  for  half  an  hour. 

"  You  know,  Joe,"  he  said,  "  that  you  are  not  tied  down 
to  that  laundry.  There  are  no  strings  on  it.  You  can 
sell  it  any  time  and  blow  the  money.  Any  time  you  get 
sick  of  it  and  want  to  hit  the  road,  just  pull  out.  Do 
what  will  make  you  the  happiest." 

Joe  shook  his  head. 

"  No  more  road  in  mine,  thank  you  kindly.  Hoboin's 
all  right,  exceptin'  for  one  thing  —  the  girls.  I  can't 
help  it,  but  I'm  a  ladies'  man.  I  can't  get  along  without 
'em,  and  you've  got  to  get  along  without  'em  when  you're 
hoboin'.  The  times  I've  passed  by  houses  where  dances 
an'  parties  was  goin'  on,  an'  heard  the  women  laugh,  an'  saw 
their  white  dresses  and  smiling  faces  through  the  windows 
—  Gee  !  I  tell  you  them  moments  was  plain  hell.  I  like 
dancin'  an'  picnics,  an'  walking  in  the  moonlight,  an'  all 
the  rest  too  well.  Me  for  the  laundry,  and  a  good  front, 
with  big  iron  dollars  clinkin'  in  my  jeans.  I  seen  a  girl 
already,  just  yesterday,  and,  d'ye  know,  I'm  feelin'  already 
I'd  just  as  soon  marry  her  as  not.  I've  ben  whistlin'  all 
day  at  the  thought  of  it.  She's  a  beaut,  with  the  kindest 
eyes  and  softest  voice  you  ever  heard.  Me  for  her,  you  can 
stack  on  that.  Say,  why  don't  you  get  married  with  all  this 
money  to  burn  ?  You  could  get  the  finest  girl  in  the  land." 

Martin  shook  his  head  with  a  smile,  but  in  his  secret 
heart  he  was  wondering  why  any  man  wanted  to  marry. 
It  seemed  an  amazing  and  incomprehensible  thing. 


406  MARTIN  EDEN 

From  the  deck  of  the  Mariposa,  at  the  sailing  hour, 
he  saw  Lizzie  Connolly  hiding  on  the  skirts  of  the  crowd 
on  the  wharf.  Take  her  with  you»  came  the  thought.  It 
is  easy  to  be  kind.  She  will  be  supremely  happy.  It 
was  almost  a  temptation  one  moment,  and  the  succeeding 
moment  it  became  a  terror.  He  was  in  a  panic  at  the 
thought  of  it.  His  tired  soul  cried  out  in  protest.  He 
turned  away  from  the  rail  with  a  groan,  muttering,  "  Man. 
you  are  too  sick,  you  are  too  sick." 

He  fled  to  his  stateroom,  where  he  lurked  until  the 
steamer  was  clear  of  the  dock.  In  the  dining  saloon,  at 
luncheon,  he  found  himself  in  the  place  of  honor,  at  the 
captain's  right ;  and  he  was  not  long  in  discovering  that 
he  was  the  great  man  on  board.  But  no  more  unsatis 
factory  great  man  ever  sailed  on  a  ship.  He  spent  the 
afternoon  in  a  deck-chair,  with  closed  eyes,  dozing 
brokenly  most  of  the  time,  and  in  the  evening  went  early 
to  bed. 

After  the  second  day,  recovered  from  seasickness,  the 
full  passenger  list  was  in  evidence,  and  the  more  he  saw 
of  the  passengers  the  more  he  disliked  them.  Yet  he 
knew  that  he  did  them  injustice.  They  were  good  and 
kindly  people,  he  forced  himself  to  acknowledge,  and  in 
the  moment  of  acknowledgment  he  qualified  —  good  and 
kindly  like  all  the  bourgeoisie,  with  all  the  psychological 
cramp  and  intellectual  futility  of  their  kind.  They  bored 
him  when  they  talked  with  him,  their  little  superficial 
minds  were  so  filled  with  emptiness  ;  while  the  boisterous 
high  spirits  and  the  excessive  energy  of  the  younger  people 
shocked  him.  They  were  never  quiet,  ceaselessly  playing 
deck-quoits,  tossing  rings,  promenading,  or  rushing  to  the 
rail  with  loud  cries  to  watch  the  leaping  porpoises  and  the 
first  schools  of  flying  fish. 

He  slept  much.  After  breakfast  he  sought  his  deck- 
chair  with  a  magazine  he  never  finished.  The  printed 
pages  tired  him.  He  puzzled  that  men  found  so  much 
t©  write  about,  and,  puzzling,  dozed  in  his  chair.  When 
the  gong  awoke  him  for  luncheon,  he  was  irritated  that  he 
must  awaken.  There  was  no  satisfaction  in  being  awake. 


MARTIN  EDEN  407 

Once,  he  tried  to  arouse  himself  from  his  lethargy,  and 
went  forward  into  the  forecastle  with  the  sailors.  But 
the  breed  of  sailors  seemed  to  have  changed  since  the 
days  he  had  lived  in  the  forecastle.  He  could  find  no 
kinship  with  these  stolid-faced,  ox-minded  bestial  crea 
tures.  He  was  in  despair.  Up  above  nobody  had  wanted 
Martin  Eden  for  his  own  sake,  and  he  could  not  go  back 
to  those  of  his  own  class  who  had  wanted  him  in  the  past. 
He  did  not  want  them.  He  could  not  stand  them  any 
more  than  he  could  stand  the  stupid  first-cabin  passengers 
and  the  riotous  young  people. 

Life  was  to  him  like  strong,  white  light  that  hurts  the 
tired  eyes  of  a  sick  person.  During  every  conscious 
moment  life  blazed  in  a  raw  glare  around  him  and  upon 
him.  It  hurt.  It  hurt  intolerably.  It  was  the  first 
time  in  his  life  that  Martin  had  travelled  first  class. 
On  ships  at  sea  he  had  always  been  in  the  forecastle,  the 
steerage,  or  in  the  black  depths  of  the  coal-hold,  passing 
coal.  In  those  days,  climbing  up  the  iron  ladders  from 
out  the  pit  of  stifling  heat,  he  had  often  caught  glimpses 
of  the  passengers,  in  cool  white,  doing  nothing  but  en 
joy  themselves,  under  awnings  spread  to  keep  the  sun 
and  wind  away  from  them,  with  subservient  stewards 
taking  care  of  their  every  want  and  whim,  and  it  had 
seemed  to  him  that  the  realm  in  which  they  moved  and 
had  their  being  was  nothing  else  than  paradise.  Well, 
here  he  was,  the  great  man  on  board,  in  the  midmost 
centre  of  it,  sitting  at  the  captain's  right  hand,  and  yet 
vainly  harking  back  to  forecastle  and  stoke-hole  in  quest 
of  the  Paradise  he  had  lost.  He  had  found  no  new  one, 
and  now  he  could  not  find  the  old  one. 

He  strove  to  stir  himself  and  find  something  to  interest 
him.  He  ventured  the  petty  officers'  mess,  and  was  glad 
to  get  away.  He  talked  with  a  quartermaster  off  duty,  an 
intelligent  man  who  promptly  prodded  him  with  the 
socialist  propaganda  and  forced  into  his  hands  a  bunch  of 
leaflets  and  pamphlets.  He  listened  to  the  man  expound 
ing  the  slave-morality,  and  as  he  listened,  he  thought  lan 
guidly  of  his  own  Nietzsche  philosophy.  But  what  waa 


408  MARTIN  EDEN 

it  worth,  after  all  ?  He  remembered  one  of  Nietzsche's 
mad  utterances  wherein  that  madman  had  doubted  truth. 
And  who  was  to  say  ?  Perhaps  Nietzsche  had  been  right. 
Perhaps  there  was  no  truth  in  anything,  no  truth  in  truth 
— no  such  thing  as  truth.  But  his  mind  wearied  quickly, 
and  he  was  content  to  go  back  to  his  chair  and  doze. 

Miserable  as  he  was  on  the  steamer,  a  new  misery  came 
upon  him.  What  when  the  steamer  reached  Tahiti  ?  He 
would  have  to  go  ashore.  He  would  have  to  order  his 
trade-goods,  to  find  a  passage  on  a  schooner  to  the  Mar 
quesas,  to  do  a  thousand  and  one  things  that  were  awful 
to  contemplate.  Whenever  he  steeled  himself  deliberately 
to  think,  he  could  see  the  desperate  peril  in  which  he 
stood.  In  all  truth,  he  was  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 
and  his  danger  lay  in  that  he  was  not  afraid.  If  he  were 
only  afraid,  he  would  make  toward  life.  Being  unafraid, 
he  was  drifting  deeper  into  the  shadow.  He  found  no 
delight  in  the  old  familiar  things  of  life.  The  Mariposa 
was  now  in  the  northeast  trades,  and  this  wine  of  wind, 
surging  against  him,  irritated  him.  He  had  his  chair 
moved  to  escape  the  embrace  of  this  lusty  comrade  of  old 
days  and  nights. 

The  day  the  Mariposa  entered  the  doldrums,  Martin 
was  more  miserable  than  ever.  He  could  no  longer  sleep. 
He  was  soaked  with  sleep,  and  perforce  he  must  now  stay 
awake  and  endure  the  white  glare  of  life.  He  moved 
about  restlessly.  The  air  was  sticky  and  humid,  and  the 
rain-squalls  were  unrefreshing.  He  ached  with  life.  He 
walked  around  the  deck  until  that  hurt  too  much,  then 
sat  in  his  chair  until  he  was  compelled  to  walk  again.  He 
forced  himself  at  last  to  finish  the  magazine,  and  from  the 
steamer  library  he  culled  several  volumes  of  poetry.  But 
they  could  not  hold  him,  and  once  more  he  took  to 
walking. 

He  stayed  late  on  deck,  after  dinner,  but  that  did  not 
help  him,  for  when  he  went  below,  he  could  not  sleep. 
This  surcease  from  life  had  failed  him.  It  was  too  much. 
He  turned  on  the  electric  light  and  tried  to  read.  One  of 
the  volumes  was  a  Swinburne.  He  lay  in  bed,  glancing 


MARTIN  EDEN  409 

through  its  pages,  until  suddenly  he  became  aware  that  he 
was  reading  with  interest.  He  finished  the  stanza,  at 
tempted  to  read  on,  then  came  back  to  it.  He  rested  the 
book  face  downward  on  his  breast  and  fell  to  thinking. 
That  was  it.  The  very  thing.  Strange  that  it  had  never 
come  to  him  before.  That  was  the  meaning  of  it  all  ;  he 
had  been  drifting  that  way  all  the  time,  and  now  Swin 
burne  showed  him  that  it  was  the  happy  way  out.  He 
wanted  rest,  and  here  was  rest  awaiting  him.  He  glanced 
at  the  open  port-hole.  Yes,  it  was  large  enough.  For  the 
first  time  in  weeks  he  felt  happy.  At  last  he  had  dis 
covered  the  cure  of  his  ill.  He  picked  up  the  book  and 
read  the  stanza  slowly  aloud  :  — 

" '  From  too  much  love  of  living, 

From  hope  and  fear  set  free, 
We  thank  with  brief  thanksgiving 

Whatever  gods  may  be 
That  no  life  live,1  forever ; 
That  dead  men  r  jse  up  never ; 

That  even  the  weariest  river 

Winds  somewhere  safe  to  sea.'  '* 

He  looked  again  at  the  open  port.  Swinburne  had  fur 
nished  the  key.  Life  was  ill,  or,  rather,  it  had  become  ill 
—  an  unbearable  thing.  "  That  dead  men  rise  up  never  I " 
That  line  stirred  him  with  a  profound  feeling  of  gratitude. 
It  was  the  one  beneficent  thing  in  the  universe.  When 
life  became  an  aching  weariness,  death  was  ready  to  soothe 
away  to  everlasting  sleep.  But  what  was  he  waiting  for  ? 
It  was  time  to  go. 

He  arose  and  thrust  his  head  out  the  port-hole,  looking 
down  into  the  milky  wash.  The  Mariposa  was  deeply 
loaded,  and,  hanging  by  his  hands,  his  feet  would  be  in 
the  water.  He  could  slip  in  noiselessly.  No  one  would 
hear.  A  smother  of  spray  dashed  up,  wetting  his  face.  It 
tasted  salt  on  his  lips,  and  the  taste  was  good.  He  won 
dered  if  he  ought  to  write  a  swan-song,  but  laughed  the 
thought  away.  There  was  no  time.  He  was  too  impa 
tient  to  be  gone. 

Turning  off  the  light  in  his  room  so  that  it  might  not 


410  MARTIN  EDEN 

betray  him,  he  went  out  the  port-hole  feet  first.  His 
shoulders  stuck,  and  he  forced  himself  back  so  as  to  try  it 
with  one  arm  down  by  his  side.  A  roll  of  the  steamer 
aided  him,  and  he  was  through,  hanging  by  his  hands. 
When  his  feet  touched  the  sea,  he  let  go.  He  was  in  a 
milky  froth  of  water.  The  side  of  the  Mariposa  rushed 
past  him  like  a  dark  wall,  broken  here  and  there  by  lighted 
ports.  She  was  certainly  making  time.  Almost  before  he 
knew  it,  he  was  astern,  swimming  gently  on  the  foam- 
crackling  surface. 

A  bonita  struck  at  his  white  body,  and  he  laughed 
aloud.  It  had  taken  a  piece  out,  and  the  sting  of  it 
reminded  him  of  why  he  was  there.  In  the  work  to  do 
he  had  forgotten  the  purpose  of  it.  The  lights  of  the 
Mariposa  were  growing  dim  in  the  distance,  and  there 
he  was,  swimming  confidently,  as  though  it  were  his  in 
tention  to  make  for  the  nearest  land  a  thousand  miles  or 
so  away. 

It  was  the  automatic  instinct  to  live.  He  ceased  swim 
ming,  but  the  moment  he  felt  the  water  rising  above  his 
mouth  the  hands  struck  out  sharply  with  a  lifting  move 
ment.  The  will  to  live,  was  his  thought,  and  the  thought 
was  accompanied  by  a  sneer.  Well,  he  had  will,  —  ay, 
will  strong  enough  that  with  one  last  exertion  it  could 
destroy  itself  and  cease  to  be. 

He  changed  his  position  to  a  vertical  one.  He  glanced 
up  at  the  quiet  stars,  at  the  same  time  emptying  his  lungs 
of  air.  With  swift,  vigorous  propulsion  of  hands  and  feet, 
he  lifted  his  shoulders  and  half  his  chest  out  of  water. 
This  was  to  gain  impetus  for  the  descent.  Then  he  let 
himself  go  and  sank  without  movement,  a  white  statue, 
into  the  sea.  He  breathed  in  the  water  deeply,  deliber 
ately,  after  the  manner  of  a  man  taking  an  anesthetic. 
When  he  strangled,  quite  involuntarily  his  arms  and  legs 
clawed  the  water  and  drove  him  up  to  the  surface  and 
into  the  clear  sight  of  the  stars. 

The  will  to  live,  he  thought  disdainfully,  vainly  en 
deavoring  not  to  breathe  the  air  into  his  bursting  lungs. 
Well,  he  would  have  to  try  a  new  way.  He  filled  his 


MARTIN  EDEN  411 

lungs  with  air,  filled  them  full.  This  supply  would  take 
him  far  down.  He  turned  over  and  went  down  head 
first,  swimming  with  all  his  strength  and  all  his  will. 
Deeper  and  deeper  he  went.  His  eyes  were  open,  and 
he  watched  the  ghostly,  phosphorescent  trails  of  the  dart 
ing  bonita.  As  he  swam,  he  hoped  that  they  would  not 
strike  at  him,  for  it  might  snap  the  tension  of  his  will. 
But  they  did  not  strike,  and  he  found  time  to  be  grateful 
for  this  last  kindness  of  life. 

Down,  down,  he  swam  till  his  arms  and  legs  grew  tired 
and  hardly  moved.  He  knew  that  he  was  deep.  The 
pressure  on  his  ear-drums  was  a  pain,  and  there  was  a 
buzzing  in  his  head.  His  endurance  was  faltering,  but 
he  compelled  his  arms  and  legs  to  drive  him  deeper  until 
his  will  snapped  and  the  air  drove  from  his  lungs  in  a 
great  explosive  rush.  The  bubbles  rubbed  and  bounded 
like  tiny  balloons  against  his  cheeks  and  eyes  as  they  took 
their  upward  flight.  Then  came  pain  and  strangulation. 
This  hurt  was  not  death,  was  the  thought  that  oscillated 
through  his  reeling  consciousness.  Death  did  not  hurt. 
It  was  life,  the  pangs  of  life,  this  awful,  suffocating  feel 
ing;  it  was  the  last  blow  life  could  deal  him. 

His  wilful  hands  and  feet  began  to  beat  and  churn 
about,  spasmodically  and  feebly.  But  he  had  fooled  them 
and  the  will  to  live  that  made  them  beat  and  churn.  He 
was  too  deep  down.  They  could  never  bring  him  to  the 
surface.  He  seemed  floating  languidly  in  a  sea  of  dreamy 
vision.  Colors  and  radiances  surrounded  him  and  bathed 
him  and  pervaded  him.  What  was  that?  It  seemed  a 
lighthouse ;  but  it  was  inside  his  brain  —  a  flashing,  bright 
white  light.  It  flashed  swifter  and  swifter.  There  was  a 
long  rumble  of  sound,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  way 
falling  down  a  vast  and  interminable  stairway.  And  some 
where  at  the  bottom  he  fell  into  darkness.  That  much  he 
knew.  He  had  fallen  into  darkness.  And  at  the  instant 
he  knew,  he  ceased  to  know. 


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